


Trinity

by CrossedBeams



Series: Trinity [1]
Category: A Streetcar Named Desire - Tennessee Williams, The Fall (TV), The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Case File, Crime, Crossover, Drama, F/F, F/M, MSR, Multiple Crossovers, tw: death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-08-09 15:22:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7807048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrossedBeams/pseuds/CrossedBeams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post IWTB, pre-revival, an invitation to consult on a serial case offers Scully an escape from the unremarkable house and the gathering darkness of Mulder's depression. Thrown into a case unravelling at terrifying speed, Scully must work alongside the ruthlessly efficient Stella Gibson, drawing on her past to help unlock the secrets held in the mind of  key witness and psychiatric patient Blanche Dubois.  With her history casting a long shadow and her future with Mulder uncertain, the killer prowling the streets of New Orleans is not the only danger Scully faces.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

_It is soft in the darkness behind her eyelids and her limbs still have the delicious heaviness of sound sleep upon them. She half-smiles and goes to yawn, to turn and return to her dreams, but her movement is restricted and suddenly the fog of sleep is a threat instead of a comfort. She forces her eyelids open but finds only a rough darkness, sight failing her as completely as her arms and legs. Air is bitter and jagged in her throat, not coming as easily as it should. She tries not to panic, to remember where she was last, to convince herself somehow that this is a dream, to not go back to the last time she found herself laid out, vulnerable, and unable to fight._

_She swore she would never find herself back there, helpless and trapped, but here she is, biting her lip until she tastes blood to prove to herself that she is awake even as she realises what being awake may mean._

_Footsteps._

_Slow and silent._

_Perhaps it is the loss of sight and movement heightening her senses but she feels like she recognises them from somewhere, like she’s heard that gait before. Something in her tells her not to cry out. Not to ask why. Not to let on that she’s awake._

_The silence adds its weight to the fear that’s building in her belly._

_Then there’s a light pressure at her throat, deliberate and deceptively gentle. One last caress down the lover’s path from ear to neck as her pulse races and betrays her. A sigh. His. She is sure now that it’s a man and almost as sure that he has brought her here to die, though she couldn't tell you why._

_She wonders if there’s any way to fight it, either the act or the certainty; whether there’s any struggle left in the dead weight of her body, whether her lungs have the capacity to scream as well as to keep breathing. Then a sharp pinch cuts through those thoughts and is followed by a powerful wave of nothingness. Everything slows until she can feel the individual beats of her heart, languid as the pendulum in a clock that’s winding down. The blood in her mouth thickens then stops, and for a second she knows perfect stillness._

_When things begin to move again she is no longer lying down but floating, back skimming the cool ceiling, anchored by some invisible umbilical to a girl she doesn’t recognise who lies pale and naked beneath her. A shadowy figure bends over the girl, watching for a breath or a flicker of life. When none comes he turns and walks away, taking her fear with him._

_She exhales, lightening and then the vision is gone._

_When she wakes up again she can see perfectly; it’s the same white room she always wakes in but the red marks on her palms from her fingernails, the soreness of her throat from screaming and the wet trails of tears and sweat are new._

  
_She shivers. Habit draws her lower lip into her mouth and with it a bloody reminder of the dream. She buries the part of her mind that tells her she tastes something else too, something foreign that belongs only to the nightmare and not to this reality but that’s not possible. Dreams are locked in the mind and though they affect the body there is no way she could bring something tangible back with her. Much more likely she’s just forgotten how vivid the creations of her sleeping mind can be, as medications and retreating demons have rendered the last few months tranquil and dreamless. She thought she was free. Perhaps she is. Perhaps with time she can rediscover that peace without chemical assistance and slip childlike between quiet sheets each night. Maybe this time her dream is just the hasty construct of an uneasy mind, and not a remembrance or a warning. Either way, sleep is lost to her tonight. As she waits for daylight, she prays to a god she no longer believes in that she will never have to return to the hell she has just imagined._


	2. Perfume

It’s a widely accepted fact that smell is the sense most closely tied to human memory, that bouquets and flashes of half-forgotten scents can carry us into our past more effectively than any old picture or nostalgic song. I’ve never been one for hurling convention or cliches at my problems but, standing in the doorway of his study, a brutal one-two punch of realisation forces this trivia to the front of my mind. I feel like an outsider, looking into a space that is now truly “his.” The time is past when everything we had salvaged was “ours.” The smell of unwashed clothes, stale coffee, and three-day-old plates is heavy enough to register on even my chemo-damaged receptors. It hangs in the air and mingles with a deteriorating landscape of case files opened but never closed and the slumped figure who is the point of origin for all this chaos. On their own, the stink and the mess wouldn’t bother me; they have arrived gradually and still have some way to go before they will rival the odour of a fresh corpse. I could push it all away and keep pretending if it weren’t for the second part of my realisation: that in the chaos assaulting my nose, I can no longer smell Mulder’s scent. I can’t even remember it.

In the months after my remission, when the damage to my olfactory system was still new, I missed the vibrant scents and tastes of the world terribly. They were still there but muffled by chemically burnt nerve endings. The delicate brush of elderflower was lost to me forever, wet grass bittersweet after spring rain was now only wet. Chemo had even stripped away the light floral scent that was my mother. To fill in the blanks, I turned to hot chilli peppers, lilacs and aromatic spices, turning my bathroom into a souk in a vain attempt to rebuild my sensory world. But through all of the adjustment, I could still recognise the smell that was Mulder; he could come up behind me in a crowd and I’d know it was him. 

On some subconscious level he realised I was clinging to his familiarity and in the months that followed his caresses were longer, closer and more frequent. Things were still achingly platonic; Mulder held on to me as if I might be taken away from him a third time and I let him anchor me, pretending that his comfort and protection were all I wanted. I filled my senses with the solid weight of him and let myself be lulled by the monotone of his musings. During those first few weeks of recovery I secretly mapped the complexity of his smell. His morning bouquet mingled cheap shampoo and often-forgotten aftershave with the constants of coffee and leather polish before becoming muddled by musty office air, sweat and balled-up paper or car air-freshener and rest-stop food. The combinations were as endless as our search for his “truth” but never quite masked the woody, comforting Mulder-ness that was his alone. He smelled like determination. He smelled like home. 

It clung to the folds of his clothes and the corners of his apartment and it was the only thing which could lull me to sleep in the months after his abduction and apparent death. Even in those dark days I had recognised and cherished his lingering scent, held on as it faded to a memory and swore to myself that I would somehow keep it alive even though I knew that was impossible.

Losing it now is just one more blow to the crumbling edifice of our home. This time Mulder is not dead but I have begun to forget him. The terror of this thought lends me the strength to step into the space he has shut me out of.

Taking a deep breath of the too-warm air I cross the threshold, soft steps on stockinged feet as I try not to wake my partner. Late afternoon sunshine pours in, bathing the squalor in light as I pick my way towards him, skirting the messy papers and praying as the distance closes that I will catch a wave of him in the hot draft from the open window and be able to retreat. The heaped relics of his obsession force me to take a circuitous route to the desk. Tidiness was never Mulder’s forte but he did once draw the line at dirty. The apparent disorder of his desk had always been a complex system that made perfect sense to his brilliant mind. That has changed too. I no longer know whether the source of the trouble is in the mind or in the mess that surrounds it.

My arrival at his side is announced by the sudden vibration of a teetering stack of papers which my attempts to stabilise reveal to be a mix of newspaper clippings, utility bills and X-Files. His silenced phone is the source of the disturbance and out of force of habit I lean across him to pick it up, aware as I broach the edges of his personal space that even this close, the closest I have been in weeks, I can’t find his smell. I withdraw, shaken. Staring down at the man I fell in love with all those years ago sprawled sleeping in a mess of his own making, I wonder how we ended up here. He has been absent for weeks from our bed, circling some unclear hypothesis in ever closer rotations, the gravity of his failure forcing me to take step after step away from him just to stay afloat. Then I see it peeking from under the heel of his hand. A baby picture, worn at the edges by late-night sorrows choked back and hidden come morning The picture we both have and never talk about. I feel the loss of our son like a burning weight in my stomach, even after all of this time and as if he feels the heaviness of my grief crashing down, Mulder’s lashes flicker and he is awake. 

I watch his eyes change color. For a split second, they’re the light hazel I’ve woken up to in run-down motels all over the country but with every bleary blink the darkness of his depression filters back through. He sits up, tearing our tenuous connection with a practiced ease that still bruises, even if it no longer surprises me. When I look for the photo in his hand it is already gone, vanished into a closing drawer. Any opportunity to talk away some of the hurt between us goes along with it.

‘What do you want, Scully,’ he says emotionlessly. 

The flat sound of his voice is the last nail in the coffin of my bravery, Without answering, I exit the study as fast as I can, helped along by air pregnant with unsaid things and unknown truths. What I want is the past, a time when he wouldn’t have had to ask that question. When I would already have known exactly what theory was gathering momentum in his mind, when he would have explained his ridiculous hypothesis even as I laughed at him. When he would hold me just to be close. A time when, even if we couldn’t fix things, we could forget them and lose ourselves in each other, looks and touches replacing language and pushing the world back for hours, days or even a long weekend.

We have forgotten how to forget together. Instead, he buries himself in dead ends and dry paper and I work longer and stay out later, putting off my return to the house that has forgotten how to be our home. 

My retreat carries me to the surrendered ground of the bedroom, to the bag that I packed earlier for back-to-back shifts at the hospital. Not for the first time it strikes me that the bag contains everything I would need to walk away for more than just one night. Maybe I can start again, take nothing but a couple of suits, my ID and access to the bank account that years of living a tiny life has inflated quite comfortably. I could run, but even as the thought bubbles up, my rational mind tells me that it wouldn’t be that simple. Eventually I’d need to work and I’d need my accreditation to do so; the paper trail of disappearing would lead me right back here or more likely lead everything, everyone I would try to leave behind straight to me. And that’s only my head. My heart might already be half-broken but the thought of leaving Mulder willingly, of giving up on him? Whatever is left in my chest twists into an agonising knot that I’m not sure I can ever undo. Mulder is wired into me so completely that I can’t imagine an escape, and so I will stay lost. 

The buzzing in my hand drags me into the present, to Mulder’s phone ringing in my hand, number unknown.

Habit brings the handset to my ear.

‘Mulder’s phone.’ I swallow the ghost of the “Agent” before his name.

There’s a pause as the caller adjusts to my voice in place of Mulder’s gravelly tones and then a cool British accent rings though.

‘This is DSI Stella Gibson of the Metropolitan Police. I need an answer from Mr. Mulder about consulting on a taskforce I’m running in conjunction with the FBI and he hasn’t responded to my emails.’ I sigh inwardly knowing perfectly well that Mulder has been responding to some emails, just none that are good for him or might actually be important. If it doesn’t relate to alien-hybrid projects, he isn’t engaging. Without thinking I cover for him.

‘Yes. Mulder mentioned something. He’s been busy but I know he planned to get in touch today. He’s just gone out for a meeting… Can I pass on a message?’ I wonder how many times I’ve lied for him over the years. Thousands probably, if my lack of hesitation and breezy tone are anything to go by. Apparently it’s worked as Gibson begins to rattle off instructions in cut-glass syllables that leave no room for cross examination.

‘As I explained in my email this is a matter of some urgency, a potential break in a serial case that I am keen either to legitimise or dismiss. I require someone with Mr Mulder’s unique experience and understand that he’s currently between posts and potentially available to consult. With that in mind, I’ve reserved a seat on a flight to Louisiana for him late this evening. Given the circumstances, I assume he won't object to the short notice. A copy of the case file will be waiting at check-in and I’ll meet him at the airport. Anything else we can go over in the car. That’s all for now Miss…’

‘Scully’, I answer faintly, her interest fading now that her request has been heard. Clearly whatever has led her to Mulder did not extend its records to include me. I find I am simultaneously grateful for the anonymity and disappointed to be overlooked. She hangs up with brusque thanks and no farewell and I hear heels start to click on the other end of the phone before they are cut off. 

I remember a time when I would stride away from phone calls in a similar fashion. The days when I went to work with a mission in a suit and three-inch heels instead of the comfortable shoes that carry me down the wards. The days when I would make calls demanding experts drop their lives to process samples or provide testimony for the cause, Mulder and I debating theories late into the night as pressed shirts crumpled and coffee cups piled up in that little basement office. The memories are visceral and stir up a longing in me that stuns with its brilliance. The idea of going back to that life is intoxicating and as I stand there it strikes me that there is nothing stopping me from grasping this opportunity. Mulder won’t; he checked out of this case before it began, his laptop screen showing an empty inbox, another dismissal of something real for the sake of his obsession. So why shouldn’t I go? The X-Files was a team of two and HR at the hospital have been emailing weekly about my accumulation of long-overdue vacation days. It sounds like the stakes are high and in an instant my mind is totally and recklessly made up.

Upending my neatly packed bag, I throw out the folded sweaters and jeans along with the doubts that keep creeping in, loading it back up with things from drawers that have been undisturbed for too long. I ignore the two demure suits that have remained out of plastic, opting instead for pristine dry-cleaners bags with pencil skirts and pantsuits that hang lifeless next to Mulder’s abandoned suits and shirts in the coffin-quiet of our shared wardrobe. We packed half of ourselves away with these garments; our lives now have no place for italian leather shoes or silk blouses too delicate to bear the weight of a stethoscope. I want those things back. Slipping one pair of sharp stilettos in with the clothes, I leave another on the floor, stepping into them as I quickly change out of the day’s tired clothes and into a persona I thought I’d left behind. My resolve strengthens as I unlock the strongbox in my top drawer and heft the long-neglected weight of my gun. At the Academy a fellow trainee once joked that my hands looked even smaller when I held a gun but I always felt the opposite was true. Armed and armoured in my old identity I am twice the woman I was ten minutes ago and not only because I am four inches taller. I’d forgotten how empowering a starched shirt could feel, the symmetrical lines of my lapels glossing over my uncertainty with sure strokes of professionalism and the authoritative punctuation of high heels on hardwood.

It takes me less than fifteen minutes to pack and scribble a note that I leave along with my phone on the bed. I wonder how long it will take Mulder to venture up and find them and I feel a twinge of guilt at taking his phone. I reason that he can use mine, that he’s too paranoid to really use it anyway and that I need his to contact DSI Gibson. Applying logic to insanity has always been one of my strengths. I’m grateful when a text arrives with flight details requiring a speedy departure, leaving me no time to reconsider. Pulling myself together I head for the car, squashing the urge to creep down the stairs like a runaway child. I am doing nothing wrong and if Mulder should ask me where I’m going I would tell him. I even slow down in the hall, some perverse part of me hoping that this will be the time he appears in the doorway and demands to know where his phone is and what I am doing. But the study remains quiet and stale and I make it to the front door without incident.

I don’t look back as I walk to the car leaving behind almost a decade’s worth of responsible choices in favour of a half-conceived plan. Outside the night wind blows from the west, carrying the unmistakable tang of the forest. It catches my hair, tugging at me with memories of other trips, early starts and dark nights in the woods. I breathe deeply, filling my lungs with the comfort of the familiar whilst cautiously embracing the possibility of something new. Closing the door on self-doubt I start the car and speed away from the unremarkable house.


	3. Impression

DSI Stella Gibson hates airports. Not for any irrational fear of flying or terrorism or crowds; she knows the statistics too well to worry about such improbabilities. She hates them because they are so damn inefficient. If she adds up the time spent standing in lines behind little old ladies with pockets full of change and multiply-pierced students taking three attempts to get through the metal detectors with the inevitable flight delays, she could probably add a solved case or two to her record.

Of all the crappy airports she’s visited, Louis Armstrong New Orleans International is fast climbing her shit list. The café doesn’t open until 6am, the vending machine added powdered milk to the black coffee she so desperately needs and the incoming flight from Charlotte is already delayed by 40 minutes. As the the spinning wheel on her phone denies her WiFi access and therefore the chance to make her wait in arrivals a productive one, Stella hopes that at least her instincts about this Fox Mulder are correct. She needs a fresh and creative mind on this case as well as someone far-enough-removed from the investigation to deflect the potentially damaging side-effects of this line of enquiry away from her taskforce. Involving such an unconventional witness goes against Stella’s instincts but they are desperate enough for a break that she will play along long enough to establish whether this line of enquiry is the key to catching their killer or just an exercise in insanity. She is also hoping that Fox Mulder is less “spooky” than his reputation. His early years as a profiler were so successful that he was legendary, even in the UK, and this, as much as the need to separate the wild tangent she’s exploring from the official investigation, is why she is willing to overlook his less exalted endeavours. Her announcement that she intended to reach out to him had elicited mixed responses from her team but a note from an Agent Reyes, formerly of the New Orleans field office had convinced her to go with her gut and ignore the ghost noises and sniggers of some of the more junior investigators. With her email still held hostage by the patchy WiFi, Stella surveys arrivals, more out of habit than anything. Noticing nothing of interest, she absent mindedly swigs her forgotten coffee before remembering with a grimace why she hasn’t already finished it and tossing it with more than the necessary force into the closest bin. 

The minutes flick by slowly and Stella finds herself sinking back into the case. She doesn’t understand this killer yet, what perversions crawl under his skin and make him do the things he does. She hasn’t even figured out exactly what he is doing, pieces of the picture are clear while others still hide in the darkness. But she will find him. 

A shadow settles between her and the artificial light and she looks up to find herself caught in an intensely blue stare, its owner extending a hand to her.

‘DSI Gibson?’

Stella shakes herself out of her head and stands to meet the stranger, trying to work out who this could be. She is surprised to find that she has an inch or so on the other woman. Even in heels that rarely happens, and she uses her vantage point to take in the other woman’s smart tailoring and sleek red hair before accepting the handshake.

‘I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage. You are?’ 

‘Dana Scully. Formerly of the FBI. I’m afraid Mulder couldn’t make it but as his partner of 8 years we thought perhaps I might be of assistance.’ Scully’s tone is calm and even, the epitome of confidence betrayed only by a tiny flicker of something in her eye. Stella notes this but moves on for the time being, this unexpected development increasing the likelihood that this avenue of enquiry is a waste of time. With several hours invested, she is more interested in finding out whether or not this woman can be of any assistance than finding out what makes her tick. For now anyway.

‘I see. I have to say Ms. Scully that I have been counting on your Mr. Mulder’s peculiar talents for handling the unexplained to help me on this case. Time really is of the essence here, and I’m not sure that you-’. Rolling her eyes at the attempted brush-off, Scully interrupts.

‘Firstly DSI GIbson, it's  _ Dr. _ Scully. I’m a medical doctor. Secondly, I worked the X-Files for nine years alongside Agent Mulder. I have put in more hours and seen more unexplained phenomena than you can begin to imagine, and what I lack in Mulder’s capacity for belief, I can add in forensic expertise. I have also reviewed your case files and identified some possible approaches that I am keen to discuss with you, if that is, you’re  _ sure _ I’m up to handling this consultation in my partner’s place.’ 

In seconds, all lightness drains from the conversation and Stella realises that she has underestimated the woman standing before her. Despite her small stature, mellow tone and unassuming introduction, Dana Scully is a commanding presence; one in whom Stella now recognises herself. She sees the same fighting spirit that drove her up the testosterone-crowded ranks at Scotland Yard and eventually brought her across the Atlantic in pursuit of a lead on a cold case. Dismissing this Dr. Scully for not being her former partner assumes that the other woman would put herself in a situation she is unqualified to handle. It’s the kind of thinking that infuriates Stella when directed at her, usually by some idiot man who feels threatened by her presence. Now she is guilty of making the same assumptions that she has fought so hard to escape and that sits wrongly, even at 6am.

‘Dr. Scully, it’s early and you caught me off guard but I shouldn’t have been so hasty or dismissive regardless of the hour. You have a background in pathology?’ Apologies don't form a large part of Stella’s vocabulary. She is aware her statement lacks the warmth that usually accompanies these sentiments but doubts it will matter. Winning back Dr. Scully’s good opinion will likely require more than some trite platitude, downgrading the offense and deflecting attention. But she’s surprised again by her new acquaintance who visibly shakes herself, eyes fluttering closed for a moment or two before opening with a tight smile and a firm gaze full of fresh resolve.

‘I’m sorry I snapped at you. I know I’m not who you were expecting.’ Scully’s voice has reclaimed the modulated calm of her greeting. ‘I had planned to explain it all better but the stopover in Charlotte was a nightmare, I hate running late, and honestly I’m desperate for a cup of coffee. Can we maybe forget the last five minutes, find some caffeine and discuss the case properly before we waste any more of your day or mine?’ 

‘Call me Stella,’ is Gibson’s only answer as she turns on her heel and leads the way out of the airport, momentarily distracted from the intricacies of her case by the unexpected puzzle that is Dana Scully. Few people in the world truly surprise her and those that do have a tendency to be psychotic, murderous or both. Scully’s value to the investigation notwithstanding, Stella has a feeling she is going to enjoy unravelling Fox Mulder’s former partner.

* * *

Six hours after my feet first touch Louisiana soil, I find myself sitting on the floor of DSI Gibson’s hotel room with a coffee table covered in case notes between us. Despite her insistence that I call her Stella, I’m finding it hard to drop the comforting formality, a discomfort she clearly doesn’t share as my tentatively offered “Dana” rolls easily off her tongue. After our rocky introduction, we’ve settled into an efficient work dynamic; she’s been in and out of the room, coordinating her investigation and catching up on recent developments ahead of an afternoon briefing as I read over the case documentation. Every hour or so we’ve checked in over coffee and she’s answered my questions with the detached efficiency of an experienced investigator. I’ve been too engrossed in the case to spend too much time studying Gibson, partly because it’s genuinely fascinating and partly because I’m out of practice and determined not to let my rustiness show, especially in such intimidating company.

There’s no way around the fact that Stella Gibson is an intimidating woman. Every facet of her is immaculately constructed, from the pristinely tailored suit and pale, unflinching glare to the cool detachment with which every word is pronounced. I remember constructing a similar shell when I left the scrubbed white cotton world of medicine and started carving out a path through the broad-shouldered black suits of the FBI, but I never stood so flawlessly in command of myself and my environment as Gibson does. Clothes go only so far and under the power suit, on a frame I suspect in bare feet might be more petite than my own, there’s a harnessed ferocity that I lack. Age has softened me and crystallized her, sharpening each diamond facet into something as dangerous as it is beautiful while I rest in the setting I chose a decade ago, still bright but worn at the edges. Catching sight of us earlier in a mirror, I was surprised to see how similar we were but now that I look more closely I can see only differences. I’m increasingly glad Mulder didn't follow up those emails. In his current state he would have crumbled under the weight of Stella’s expectation. I still might. Searching through this case, I find little that is certain. The only thing that feels familiar from the X-Files day is the complete lack of evidence in any convincing direction. I keep fighting the urge to just ask why I’m here, why this by-the-book woman has extended an invitation to the now defunct, black sheep of the FBI flock but as I flip closed the latest report I finally admit my ignorance.

‘I don’t understand why you called us,’ I tell her. ‘It’s a confusing case, but unless you’re suggesting your attacker literally vanished only to reappear years later, I can’t see any precedent for a paranormal factor.’ 

Stella nods and prompts me with a few leading questions, testing my thoroughness and calmly positing connections almost Mulder-like in their outlandishness.  As I verbalise my opinions, I hear myself fall back into old patterns, treading gently in my dismissal while justifying my natural scepticism.  Diagnoses in neuroscience are often all too black and white, and I’ve missed this deductive process, the struggle to line up conflicting facts and testimony into something manageable.

Then I feel a slight surge of disappointment as I realise my judgement likely means this trip back to my old life is over. I can’t make the evidence add up to something it doesn’t. Playing detective might be more thrilling than the life I’ve left in Virginia, but if I’m not essential to this case then I should cancel my last minute leave and do right by my patients. I brace myself for Stella’s agreement and dismissal and am surprised when I’m instead greeted with a hint of a smile and the thud of another file that she pulls from under the table.

‘That was exactly my first thought. It’s what the evidence I gave you indicates. But it’s not the whole story’.

‘You withheld evidence?’ I don’t even try and hide the indignation in my voice and I feel my right eyebrow inch up in disbelief. ‘You drag me across the country, DSI Gibson, and then don’t afford me the courtesy of the full picture?’ 

She’s unapologetic and calm in her explanation. ‘I needed to be sure that you were capable of being objective. The X-Files has something of a reputation for wild theorising and reckless tangents, especially since Monica Bannan case in ‘08 had such a high body-count. I wanted to be sure that you wouldn’t jump to something supernatural when a perfectly good rational explanation fits. It’s nothing personal. In fact I read your file while you were catching up and it seems perhaps you would have been a much better pick than Agent Mulder from the start. You have quite a resume.’ 

There’s no judgement or mockery in her voice, yet I still bristle at the implications of both her words and her actions. I’ve wasted half a day drawing conclusions from incomplete data while Stella sat across the table, checking up on me and testing my capabilities. I knew instinctively that she had a capacity for ruthlessness and our first interaction proved her decisive to the point of arrogance but now I would add cunning and manipulation to the mental profile I am building of Stella Gibson. She commands my respect but I do not trust her. It’s like those early days on the X-Files, when Mulder liked to keep me in the dark, dangling his theories over my head with the excuse that I wouldn’t believe him as justification, waiting for me to give up before he filled in the blanks. It was only my refusal to be what he expected and my almost pathological need to succeed that kept me from walking away. And it seems while many things in my life have changed over the last twenty years, my desire to solve every problem and deconstruct every theory is not one of them.

Squashing my hurt feelings and irritation, I affect the mask of steely detachment I reserved for Mulder’s most ridiculous paranormal posturing. Stella’s eyes search my face for a response but that is one satisfaction I can deny her, flipping open the file between us and suggesting in a tone of brusque professionalism that perhaps it will be faster if she runs me through the omitted evidence. Stella agrees, pausing only to remove a frosty bottle of mineral water from the minibar and twisting the cap off. She offers me the bottle and when I refuse drinks deeply directly from the neck before she fills a glass and folds crisply into her chair. Unwilling to be talked down to, I scramble rather less elegantly for a place on the sofa and wait as she gathers herself, hands folded in her lap, and begins. She recounts the narrative without referring to notes, the case already as familiar to her as if it were her own life story.


	4. Connection

‘It started in 2009 when I was working on a series of assaults outside of London with the Met. Two female students, Mia Dawes and Neha Choudhury, were taken from their University campus and returned drugged, stripped but otherwise unharmed. They were both missing less than twelve hours and neither could remember where they had been or who they were with. They were taken from and returned to different places and no witnesses came forward. Tox screens told us that they’d both been dosed with ketamine which was readily available from campus drug dealers.  With so little to go on, we’d hardly started working up a profile when he struck again. The third victim, Laura Fellowes, was missing several days and we found her badly beaten; the rest of the evidence and the scenario of her abduction and reappearance, though, were consistent enough to assume the same perpetrator. Laura’s head injuries were severe and her memory was badly impaired, so again we found ourselves with almost nothing to go on. The only thing we could get from her was that she thought she had been held in a small bedroom, not unlike those of the campus accommodation.

In the gap between Laura’s return and her being sufficiently recovered to give evidence, we exhausted all our other leads and the attacks appeared to have stopped. With the victims preferring to move on with their lives, and under pressure from the Met and the college,  the investigation was downgraded and eventually all but closed. It never felt finished to me, the attacker had escalated with his final victim and it didn't make sense that he would stop after that. Nothing about it made sense. The removal of a victim’s clothes generally indicates a sexually motivated crime but the rape kits came back negative and there were no signs of molestation. There was no apparent ritual element either. The victims didn’t conform to any obvious profile, they were of different ages and ethnicities, they didn't share any interests or physical similarities and yet the snatchings were too perfectly executed to have been opportunistic. We found no DNA evidence and minimal trace on them, nothing to suggest they’d been anywhere out of the ordinary. And I was there when they found Laura Fellowes, left seemingly at random in the woods and yet again without a shred of useful evidence on her.

Here I interrupt.‘But you did get something from the wound pattern? I remember seeing something in the reports…’

Stella nods. ‘Yes and no. The injuries to her head seemed to have been inflicted by a combination of punches and kicks to the head and upper body but the only trace we found was latex and plastic, so he was wearing gloves and boot covers at the very least. We could determine the approximate size, weight and handedness of her assailant; a man of average height and build who favoured their right side.’

‘So your suspect was basically average-Joe psychopath edition then?.’ I see a flicker of something cross Stella’s steely exterior at my assessment, something that tells me that she thinks it’s more than that. 

‘That’s what the final case report said before it was downgraded and we moved on to the next deviant.  I made a case for continuing the investigation but I was overruled by my commanding officer and budget considerations. Bureaucracy won, as it tends to, and things moved on.’ Stella pauses as if to sift through memories, eyes distant as she searches for connections and patterns. I watch, fascinated by the methodic calm of her process until eventually she continues.

‘I’m very good at compartmentalisation and I’ve had cases go cold before. I never took it personally but something about this one always stayed with me. I think I always felt that we’d missed something important because it didn’t make sense to me, I didn’t have even a passable theory to explain what had happened. I still don’t and I’ve never walked away from a case with so many questions unanswered. Looking back, I think we didn’t make any progress because there were two sides to the attacks: an opportunistic element that made it impossible to predict or understand the attacker’s patterns and motivations but also a calculated preparation and method which starved us of forensic evidence and witnesses.’

‘As if your attacker knew that he was going to commit the attacks but hadn’t decided who to take until the last moment? And maybe something went wrong with the last girl, he was forced to adapt and needed longer to cover his tracks? It could explain the longer absence of the victim,’ I offer.

‘Exactly.’ Stella seems pleased that I have followed her train of thought, though I’m still unsure where she is heading with this new evidence. So far everything she has told me matches the reports I have already read. ‘I’ve wondered if maybe that was even part of why he stopped. If something spooked him during the last kidnapping that made him reassess what he was doing, recalibrate the risks. It must have been  _ something _ because we were nowhere near catching him. We never had a serious suspect but even so I had the task force follow-up with everyone we interviewed back then and they all have solid alibis for the murders. Which means we never even touched him and he still stopped.’

The usual reason for this kind of pause was incarceration but something about Stella’s countenance stopped me asking the obvious question. It seemed perhaps this was not a case where the most obvious scenario was the truth and though I was waiting fo convincing evidence to this effect I couldn’t help remembering Eugene Tooms and his timeline-confounding hibernations. Shuddering slightly I snap myself out of the past and back into the realms of probability

‘Perhaps he never planned to hurt them and felt remorse at the attack on the third girl? Maybe he found another outlet,’ I suggest.  But even as I consider the possibility, it feels wrong. I know from Laura Fellowes’ medical notes that her injuries were not the result of a single beating but several over the course of her abduction. A remorseful attacker does not repeat his battery. So it’s something else. ‘Or maybe he moved away? There could be victims we don’t know about.’ I ask, hoping that I’m wrong. 

‘I did wonder that,’ is Stella’s response. ‘I watched for similar crimes for months but nothing close to this MO came up. I thought that perhaps he just got better at hiding his victims but the public display seems to be a part of his pattern, both for the abductions and these murders. The women are always left somewhere discreet but not hidden. He wants us to find them and to know it was him, which makes me think that he  _ did _ stop for a while, but doesn’t tell me why. He was taking these women and keeping their clothes for a reason.’ She pauses, dryly adding with a smirk, ‘I don’t think he’s planning to wear them.’ 

I half-smile and nod.

‘It does seem improbable. So we think he had unfinished business. But why start again now?’ I can’t help the shudder that passes through me as images of this man’s latest victims swim through my head, dead eyes peering up from the coffee table.

‘I knew it was him as soon as I read the news article about the first woman; the nakedness without sexual assault and the display of the bodies gave it away. The evidence pointed to it but it was my gut that convinced me it was him. It just felt the same. It took two more bodies for anyone to admit that I might be right. And by the time we sorted out the jurisdictional clusterfuck that is a British detective consulting on an FBI case, we were at four victims. I'd like to make sure that the body count doesn't get any higher. The only problem is that though our guy seems to have taken a break, he’s not out-of-practice. Whatever he’s been doing has only made him more efficient and less likely to leave us anything we might use to track him down.’

‘You haven't found anything at any of the crime scenes? Or on any of the bodies? Because if we're talking about a total absence of trace, we're looking for someone with access to a sterile kill room and that might give us a starting place,’ I say, pleased when my deduction is met with an approving nod.

‘We’ve looked into that already,’ Stella replies. ‘It’s a good thought though. It’s not that there isn’t any trace; it’s just that what there is doesn’t help us to narrow things down much. Similar to the injury profile of Laura Fellowes, everything we’ve found is incredibly common. The bodies had all been washed prior to disposal using a common household brand of soap and what we think was surgical spirit. We found fibres, dust, and dirt but nothing unusual or specific enough to be of use without a crime scene to compare them to.’

‘With so little in the way of forensics I’m surprised they accepted your link to the assaults back in the UK as fast as they did,’ I observe. The FBI are generally bullish and reticent when it comes to the involvement of other US agencies, never mind international ones. ‘I have to say I probably would have hesitated to link the two on the evidence I’ve seen. The body dumps may be unusual, but the MO is only tentatively consistent. As you observed there was no clear victim profile in the assaults to match to the murders. It’s a different continent, a different decade and now he’s a killer. Even the flower thing is new.’ I flick through the crime scene pictures, at the crisp white petals of the jasmine flowers held in the cold, dead lips of these poor women.

‘Actually, it isn’t. And that’s probably the only reason they accepted my theory.’ She pulls a pair of crime scene photographs from the file. ‘The techs found a tiny bunch of daisies close to where the first girl was found and the Neha Choudhury had a rose tucked in her hair. We never released that information because we weren’t sure what it meant, whether it was an afterthought or maybe even a coincidence. Not until Laura Fellowes, who was arranged, very deliberately, with a jasmine flower in her mouth. After that we held the information back to prevent hysteria and give us some way to sort any real tips from the endless lunatics who called the incident room.’

She pulls a final picture out: Laura Fellowes damaged face, white petals lingering on angry red skin and deep purple bruises. I glance up from the picture and find Stella’s jaw set as she glares at the evidence in front of us.

‘I’m going to catch this fucker,’ she murmurs. I believe her, a steely backbone to her simple statement that carries into her next sentence. ‘You’re going to help me.’

‘I don’t see how I can.’ I’m still struggling to find any reason to involve Mulder or myself in the small details she has added. ‘I think maybe a botanist might be more useful to you at this stage as someone experienced with the paranormal.’

‘We have one of those already.’ Stella is brusque as she pulls the files back from my lap, efficiency once again masking the responsibility she clearly feels for this case and its victims. ‘These are the testimony and medical records of a Miss Blanche DuBois, inpatient at Riverview psychiatric hospital. According to her doctors, she has been experiencing night terrors that match the dates and approximate times of death in each of the murders so far. According to her physician this comes after a long period without any similar episodes and sleep disorder is not a known side effect of any of her current medications. Miss DuBois claims to have witnessed each of the victims’ deaths in her dreams and has provided accurate descriptions of the four women taken. She claims not to have any knowledge of the case through the media and though she’s an inpatient the hospital can’t confirm that she hasn’t used her TV privileges or discussed the case with staff or visitors. On top of that, she apparently she has a habit of talking her way into places she shouldn’t be and acquiring things she shouldn’t have.’

‘Then why are we taking her seriously?’ I ask. ‘Correlation between nightmares and dates of death is hardly evidence.’

‘Because in addition to describing, unprompted the victims and also a kill room that would fit what little trace evidence we have managed to recover, she also claims she witnessed a fifth death, before the four we know about. You and I have both wondered if we’re missing victims, and I’m desperate for a break. I don’t believe in psychics, but if this woman somehow witnessed something real, or is in touch with someone who did, I want to find out what it is, how she knows it, and then rule out this line of investigation once and for all. Which is why I need you. I need someone who can consider the possibility that she’s right for long enough to unravel the truth in her story, and I’m not capable of that. I don’t believe this woman is actually witnessing the crimes of a serial killer. I’m much more inclined to believe she’s at best an accessory, and that suspicion might cloud my judgement to any piece of real evidence she could be hiding inside the fantasy. I hate the idea of wasting time on hocus pocus, but I can’t ignore the very, very slim chance that this might lead us to a fifth body or a suspect.’

I nod. Though I’m inclined to share her disbelief, I’m once again struck by the efficiency with which she has identified a potential opportunity, realised its dangers and found a way to work around them. Involving the X-Files puts both a stamp of authority on this bizarre tangent and distances Stella herself from any potentially embarrassing exposure should the involvement of an unstable witness backfire. It’s a masterclass in problem-solving and delegation as well as another glimpse into the formidably calculating mind concealed behind her cool exterior.

‘So you want me to play the good cop?’ I enquire, unwilling to accept without confirmation my hypothesis as to the game she is playing, and I’m rewarded with another one of her knowing smiles.

‘Good cop, mad cop, into new-age bullshit cop. You can play it however you like I just need somebody there experienced in reading between the lines of the absurd and finding the truth.’ Cards on the table, Stella starts to gather her notes. ‘I’ve arranged for a car to take us down there after this afternoon’s briefing. You should have time between now and then to read through the rest of Ms. DuBois’ records.’ She taps the weighty file absentmindedly. For a few moments we have been equals but now she is once again taking control and, interpreting my silence as acceptance of the role offered, she sweeps from the room, uncertainty offloaded and ready to lead. 


	5. Delusion

The ride out of the city is a quiet one. Redhead and blonde bend over their work on opposite sides of the car as the ragtag buildings of one of the city's poorer areas give way to lawns, fences and pillared houses set back far from the passing traffic.

Stella is engrossed in the latest updates from the street teams canvassing for witnesses in the area where the last body was found. She reads every paragraph twice; once for basic comprehension and once for anything that feels wrong. Page after page flips by in mundanity. As hard as she tries to focus, hoping for that case-transforming clue, her brain is past the point of reason with fatigue. She needs sleep or coffee or at least to swim off some of the frustration that lack of progress has begun to build into an aching mass at the base if her skull. Closing the  file when the black and white print starts drifting out of its ordered rows, she pinches the bridge of her nose to focus, rolling down the window in the hope that the warm breeze will disturb the stale, air-conditioned air and with it the fog clouding her thoughts. 

It’s been a mind-numbing exercise, poring over every testimony, hoping to find that one inconsistency that everyone else has missed, the excuse she needs to turn the car around and drive off in pursuit of a tangible, comprehensible lead. But she’s found nothing and she’s out of time and excuses. Stella now has to accept what she has subconsciously been denying: that at this moment, the upcoming interview with this unlikely witness is the only break she has. 

Fan-fucking-tastic.

Leaning back in her seat she exhales heavily but silently, keen to observe Dr. Scully who sits across from her, folder open on one knee and laptop balanced precariously on the other, totally engrossed in whatever she is doing. She’s an unusual creature, Stella muses, absently admiring the smooth white line of the other woman’s neck under the sleek auburn hair. So far she’s seen a confusion of personas in one polished package; in turn Dana is a serious scientist, a logical thinker and a canny investigator but also a stubborn woman, a fiery adversary and a firmly closed book when it comes to anything personal. Stella herself has yet to find the time, inclination or opportunity to begin any sort of extra-curricular conversation but she did witness the plight of a young agent who, after the briefing, made the mistake of flippantly enquiring after “Spooky” Mulder. Fewer than ten words from Scully saw the would-be joker with a red face and a bruised ego, fleeing the room on the heels of a curt dismissal that was almost elegant in its simplistic savagery. Stella wasn’t sure even she could have handled it so effectively and she doubts that else anyone will now dare to ask after Mulder, let alone what had happened all those years ago. Which suddenly makes those questions much more interesting.

Stella has idly wondered about the nature of Mulder and Scully’s partnership ever since the scene at the airport. What would make a woman like Dana Scully take leave from her well-paid, high-profile job to come here in Mulder’s place years after their association with the FBI has ceased? Records say they’re not married, but Scully answers his phone which, in combination with the lack of an address on file for Mulder, suggests they may live together. She’s overheard an abundance of gossip but surprisingly little in the way of facts about the end of the X-Files, their fugitive days and whatever inspired their hasty pardon. Scully’s instinctive rebuttal of the agent’s inappropriate enquiry makes Stella think that they are or have been lovers but that alone wouldn’t account for the other woman’s presence here without him. By all accounts this was their shared passion, and the more she thinks about it the less sense it all makes. 

The sound of the road turning into a gravel drive breaks Scully’s concentration and she glances up, catching Stella watching her. Unembarrassed, the blonde holds the look for two beats longer than is comfortable or polite before rolling her head languidly away to look out at the building they’re approaching. The movement falls somewhere between sensuality and practicality, creating as much tension in the air as it may dissipate in her shoulders. Scully, not for the first time, feels that she has escaped the gaze of an effective predator. Somewhat flustered, she gathers her papers, pulling facts, theories, and tactics down to cover her vulnerability before following Stella’s lead and looking out of the window.

Riverview Psychiatric Hospital is the kind of place that looks quite grand from a distance, with tall sash windows gazing over lawns that stretch down to the small stream of turgid water that passes as the eponymous river. It’s white in the fading sunlight, and when the car doors open there’s a moment of peaceful hush when it seems exactly the sort of place that damaged minds might find escape and comfort. A closer inspection reveals whitewash flaking off the walls and mixing with gravel that’s as much dirt as stone and though the big wooden doors are solid and imposing, they cannot contain the antiseptic smell of hospital that runs out and taints the summer sweet air.

The orderlies are as washed out as their surroundings and barely look at Stella’s identification as she signs them into the visitors log, the click of their heels by far the sharpest thing in the dull white corridors. They walk all the way through the building, passing patients who blend into the anonymous grey-white stretches of linoleum and plasterboard until finally they find the sun again, dipping heavily into the trees on the horizon.

The room they’re ushered into has more life in it than any they’ve yet passed. Bright scarves are draped over regulation furniture and there’s a vanilla sweetness in the air. The sun’s dying light catches these warm tones and sets them on fire along with the dust motes caught on the window panes and the tiny figure casting a long shadow back on to the bed.

Blanche DuBois does not turn when they enter but a slight change in her posture makes it clear she knows they are there. One pale hand worries the sleek curl of her hair and the other fiddes with the hem of the gaudy satin wrap she wears. The attendant who led them here crosses to her and in a low voice announces Scully and Gibson’s names, occupations and purpose here before turning and leaving them alone with the witness.

* * *

 

A heavy hush fall as the orderly leaves us hovering awkwardly by the door, the reason for our visit statue still across the room, apparently unmoved by our invasion of her world. I glance at Stella, uncertain as to how we should handle our approach and find her watching the woman with narrow eyes and pursed lips. I’m momentarily surprised; it’s a major slip for someone with such steely control as DSI Gibson to display any emotions beyond a controlled smile or a disapproving tightening around the mouth. Perhaps her need for my input on this case extends beyond my being a buffer for this outlandish lead; perhaps she really meant it when she expressed concerns that she would be unable to conduct this interview objectively. Movement in the corner of her eye causes the shutter of professionalism to slam black down and four blue eyes fix on the same target as it spins theatrically, throwing arms wide and pronouncing,

‘Y’all will have to forgive my state of undress. I like to make myself over for company but they took all my good dresses after Marcia from next-door took liberties with one of my sashes and her shower rail.’ Blanche laughs gaily, straight white teeth flashing bright in a haunted face. She was beautiful once, perhaps not so long ago; the kind of beauty that wins crowns and the hearts of wealthy heirs. Traces of it linger in the smooth sweep of her hair, the aristocratic lines of her face, and the lightness with which she carries herself across the room. But there is no escaping her eyes. Eyes are meant to sparkle on occasion with mischief or wickedness but they should never blaze with such desperate energy as hers do. Thick lashes line the hollows but can’t shadow the manic shine of bruise-blue or the vicious swipe of blush she has used to try and paint life back into the taut paper of her face. Her voice is a mellifluous cocktail of southern gentility and sharp, needling questions and she keeps up a running commentary as she pulls together chairs and seats us to her liking; Stella and I perch on low stools while Blanche is across from us, framed again by the window in the high backed chair from beside the bed.

‘I wasn’t expecting you two! I thought it’d be more of those rough-cut men in uniform who can’t even spell my name right without being told twice. I can’t tell you what a relief it is to have the two of you instead! Why it’s almost like being back home except everyone’s a little formal, I’ve no sweet tea to offer and the good china went the same way as my husband. Fact is, I can’t offer you a thing in the way of refreshment and I used to be quite the hostess! The Laurel papers once wrote up a July 4th garden party I gave as the finest in the state, but that was when I still had Belle Reve to hostess in. It’s awful hard to be a gracious host when you’re always a guest, when you don’t have anyone - anything to - when you’re trapped - caught - when he - they - they...’

She trails off, hands worrying and words catching in her throat as her eyes chase invisible demons around the room, looking everywhere but the bed. I step in, tone smooth and comforting but steering clear of condescension. This is a proud woman, however far she has fallen.

‘Please don’t apologise Miss DuBois. Arriving on such short notice we didn’t expect much of a welcome. We’re just grateful you agreed to see us. I’m sure you understand that in these circumstances  DSI Gibson and I are really much more interested in  _ what _ you have to say than the surroundings anyway.’

She seems to consider my words and gradually her knotted fingers smooth back out and lie limply in her lap.

‘You can call me Blanche. Miss DuBois sounds too much like an old-maid and though that may be the truth, I don’t like to dwell on it. What did you say your names were? So many people of little consequence pass through here that I’ve given up listening to introductions. Unless they come back often, one stranger is much like another.’

Stella and I exchange a glance, a tacit agreement that this is no normal interrogation and so the general rules of conduct will not apply. Stepping into my role as the believer and for the first time putting myself ahead of Stella, I smile warmly and offer a handshake which Blanche accepts, her fingers icy in mine. 

‘I’m Dr. Dana Scully and this is Detective Superintendent Stella Gibson of the Metropolitan police.’

Stella follows my lead, standing slightly to mimic my greeting only to be pulled upright as our witness snaps out of her chair. Blanche clasps Stella’s shoulders, a tense, bright grin on her face as her gaze sweeps my colleague’s face intently. Stella stands stiffly in her hold, a quickening pulse in her jaw the only clue that she is anything other than stalwart in the face of this bizarre inspection. After a few seconds Blanche’s smile wilts and she releases her grip, subsiding back into her chair. Only moments before it had seemed like a throne, but now she is dwarfed by it. 

‘My sister was a Stella,’ is her only explanation, ‘Stella for star and just as far away. I suppose looking for her in strangers is something only a madwoman would do but is it madness to believe in magic? To hope that maybe some snippet of her soul might visit me at twilight?’ She doesn’t wait for an answer. ‘Of course that’s why you're here. To ask about the ones that come to me in the darkness and find out if I’m mad or wicked or just a liar? I wish I could tell you, but I don’t know. I’ve told lies and made people believe them and I’ve told the truth and been called a liar; I’m not sure I know the difference anymore and that’s why they keep me here. But I do know that what I’m dreaming doesn’t come from me. There’s darkness in me but not that kind, not that twisted, wicked shade. My lies were always for the sake of beauty! I can’t abide ugliness and no amount of jasmine perfume can make those nightmares beautiful.’ Her voice fades to a sad whisper, as if her memories of older, happier times have been eclipsed by the despairing weight of recent events. 

‘Jasmine perfume?’ I interject. I’ve been looking for a way to cut into her monologue and my failure has given us a potential link. I feel rather than see Stella lean in beside me. ‘Why do you mention jasmine perfume?’

Blanche shrugs. ‘I can always taste it in my mouth when I wake up from the dreams. Like there’s so much of it in the air in that horrible room that it invades everything, choking the girls, choking me. I can’t explain it exactly. I can’t wear jasmine any more. It smells of death now.’

Against every rational fibre of my being, I feel my heart-rate start to quicken. This is too big of a coincidence. I glance at Stella for a response and find her as stony-faced as the moment we entered, apparently impervious to even the suggestion of the supernatural. 

‘So the room you dream about smells of jasmine?’ I ask. Blanche shakes her head.

‘Not exactly. The dream smells of jasmine, is somehow infused with it, like an old love letter... There’s no plant or perfume shop spritz girl.’  She shivers and in the lengthening shadows of sunset she suddenly looks very old. ‘I told the other policemen this already, I told him to write it down exactly and if he didn’t then that’s not my fault. Why go over it again? Why pour salt on a wound when it’s clear that  _ you _ still think I’m crazy!’ She gestures at Stella’s immovable presence and continues to fold in on herself, all brightness fading with the sunset.

Stella stands without a word and exits the room, leaving me alone to try and salvage the conversation, to see if there are any more improbable coincidences that might tell us how or why this woman knows what she knows. As I search around for some way to make her open up to me I wonder if this is how Mulder felt every time I walked away from him and his supernatural posturing, this brief pang of loss, the uphill battle of winning me over and having to carry on alone when he failed. Blanche interrupts my rueful trip down memory lane in a voice much clearer than when she last spoke.

‘You’re different from her. You believe me. Don’t you?’ I meet her eyes and find them calm and hopeful, no trace of guile or manipulation. There's some part of me that wants to trust her and reduce the isolation of her situation but I resist the urge to agree; her sincerity may be real but so is her mental disorder. Instead, I search for a neutral, positive response. I suppose that if I’m to play the part of Mulder in this case then I might as well borrow his philosophy.

‘I want to believe you, Blanche. I really do. But no matter what I might want to be true, I’m a scientist and that means I have to have evidence. Is there anything else you can tell me? Any other details, smells or sensations that you might have left out and could help me to corroborate your story?’

She shifts in her chair, tugging her robe tighter around her in the gathering dark. I reach out to turn on the table lamp and she stops me, shaking her head no. 

‘This story has no place in the light,’ she says. ‘It’s always the same room. White walls with a papery sort of texture. They don’t look thick. Like if you could get to them you could break them down, which makes the not being able to move so much worse. Like Tantalus, only it isn’t hell. Not yet.’

‘You’re restrained in your dreams?’ I ask. There are no mentions of ligature marks in the coroners’ reports; a discrepancy, maybe the first of many? But then she shakes her head.

‘No. There are no ropes or ties. At least nothing physical. There are more ways than you’d think to take a prisoner, to keep someone somewhere that they don’t want to be, where they don’t belong.’ Her eyes flit around the four walls of her own prison before landing back on my face as she continues. ‘I start out thinking I’m the one who is trapped on the table and feeling as if my arms and legs are leaden or asleep while the rest of me is awake. I can’t see to check because of the blindfold so it’s just a feeling at first. Then, once the girls are dead, I can see them from above, like I’m a guardian angel. A failed one, about to fall down to where the devil has taken what was mine. From up there I can see their sweet, cold faces, he takes the the blindfolds off when they’re gone so I can see everything they used to be, laid out and lost. And they’re not tied up, just very very still.’

‘How do they die?’ I ask. ‘Is the dying what separates you from them?’ Her story matches, more or less, what is in the recorded testimony but the detail is richer and there’s meaning in the nuance of her speech, an innocent integrity which was lost in transcription. In the last ten years I’d forgotten how ruthlessly brisk a witness statement can be, how much humanity never makes it on to the official record. What I read this afternoon was the facts but not the full story and I have the strangest feeling that if I can see through her roundabout way of talking, past the damage and the dramatics then I might find something useful, that she might somehow know something after all. 

‘I don’t know how they die. It feels like their hearts stop, coiled too tight like an overwound clock. One of them coughed a lot like she was choking, the others were almost peaceful but she fought for every breath and I wanted her to win but I couldn’t change it. I can never seem to change the things that matter, awake or asleep. I used to think when I was growing up that on my sixteenth birthday someone would flick a switch and I’d get to take control of my life. I was so excited to get away from my parents and fall madly in love and do all the things I read about. I never did find that switch. Everything I’ve ever chosen has fallen apart and everyone I touch seems to break down or die. Dust and ashes and no rebirth for my loves. Maybe that’s why I dream these things. Maybe there’s something broken about me that twists things into ruin and whoever is doing this does the same. I - I don’t want that to be true. You don’t think that could be true do you?’

I shake my head. I don’t know yet whether I believe any of what she is telling me is true though some gut-feeling that I am trying to ignore tells me there’s more here than I expected. The room is almost completely dark by now and Blanche is an inky silhouette against the larger shadow of her seat. Conscious that time is precious in this investigation I press her for more details on her experience.

‘So the perspective shift, the floating on the ceiling part, that comes after death?’ I enquire. Blanche nods, a ripple in the darkness 

‘All I know is one moment I’m seeing from the inside and the next I’m not.  They're lying there, finally still, I'm looking on and he just stands there, breathing hard in the shadows. There shouldn't be shadows in a room like that but he brings them with him. Darkness, death and the scent of jasmine. 

‘Can you tell me what he looks like? Anything at all?’

‘He doesn’t have a face. Or maybe he does and I just can’t see it yet. I don’t think I want to. I’ve seen monsters before; hunger and evil flicker in the eyes of many men but I’ve never seen it like this. You can feel it, like the murky still moment before a storm.’

She trails off and her eyes are lost in the memory, pupils wide and fearful as though this shadow man could step out of her memory and into the room. I click my pen closed and try not to feel disappointed as it becomes clear that the story is over and that there will be no epiphany moment; no indubitable evidence of a true link between Blanche and the victims, no revealing, case-unravelling clue and no glaring inconsistencies to banish the tiny voice in the back of my mind telling me that there is something to be found here. The jasmine thing was promising but perhaps one of the previous interviewers had been at a crime scene and let something slip. I’m wondering if it’s worth asking her about the fifth woman she claims to have dreamed. We already have a description on file and a couple of uniforms trawling through Jane Does looking for a match. The uncertain silence hangs heavy between us only to be torn by click of the door opening and Stella’s steps, short, sharp and purposeful across the room to stand by the bed. 

‘Anything new?’ she asks me, barely maintaining eye contact long enough to establish my answer before starting to unload pictures from the file she has brought with her on to the starched coverlet of the bed.

‘Miss DuBois,’ she announces, ‘You claim to have witnessed five murders and have provided descriptions of the victims in each case. Are the women you saw among the pictures I have brought?’ She gestures at the spread before her, at the staring eyes and livid skin of more than twenty autopsy pictures. I catch sight of three of our victims in the macabre gallery before my attention is drawn to Blanche, a tiny choking noise escaping her as she hunches into her chair and covers her eyes with a trembling hand.

‘Please don’t make me look at those! I’ve seen too much death already and bruisings and beatings and all sorts of ugliness! Why would you put dead girls in my bed? Why!?’

Stella is unapologetic, steel couched in polite rationalisation.

‘I wanted to give you the chance to prove that you’re telling the truth, Blanche. Your doctors tell me that you haven’t been through to the TV lounge or made any phone calls in weeks. So, if you can tell me which of these are the girls you saw then there’s a much greater chance that you’re telling us the truth. Unless you’re not, in which case I will take the pictures away and leave you in peace.’

I open my mouth to object but bite my tongue at Stella’s look: hard, cold and completely devoid of compromise. Sensing that same force, Blanche pulls herself, white-knuckled, out of the chair and crosses the floor in the gallows walk of a condemned woman. Stopping behind Stella, as if to shield herself from the full awfulness of the pictures, she takes a deep breath and tries to focus on the landscape of lost souls that have invaded her sanctuary. In a voice hardly louder than a whisper she points.

‘That one.’ Blonde hair, bruise blue lips, and over-plucked brows. Miranda Vernay. Victim three.

‘Her.’ Mousy, sweet faced with a coagulation of freckles across her upturned nose. Jennie Stokes. Victim one.

‘And her.’ Tightly braided chocolate cornrows, high cheekbones and a beauty mark kissing her jaw. Nanette Arnaud. The most recent discovery. The second she’s finished, Blanche turns away, inching towards the corner of the room that’s furthest from the bed. She’s three for three, but Stella presses on.

‘And the others. What about the other two? Which are they?’

‘They’re not there,’ Blanche chokes out. ‘So many daughters and lovers dead in my bed but not the other two I saw.’ 

‘Perhaps you just didn’t look hard enough,’ Stella seems determined to push this further still, but I have had enough. Drawing myself to my feet, I stand, ready to remove my colleague from the room and tell her exactly what I think of her methods when my path is blocked by Blanche who retraces her steps to Stella’s side in four long, furious paces.

‘I told you that they’re not there! If you don’t believe me then that’s up to you but I have LOOKED at your horrible pictures. I have told you who I saw. If you want me to lie and tell you that the others are there too I won’t! I won’t look at it any more! I can’t stop my dreams, but I don't have to look at them again. I won’t! I can’t!’  As quickly as her anger exploded, it drains out of her again along with the little colour in her cheeks. A birdlike pulse flutters in her neck and she spins on her heel.

  
‘I’m going to be sick,’ she whispers and runs from the room, leaving me, Stella and the dead girls behind.


	6. Confrontation

The silence in the room is thick and toxic. Through the paper-thin walls I can hear the sound of Blanche retching in the next-door bathroom.  I turn to the cause of her distress and, though I fight to retain some veneer of professional detachment, I’m sure Stella can feel my scalding gaze burning accusing questions into her back. Perhaps not though; she moves slowly but with purpose, collecting up her little display and sliding it back into the folder as if this mess can be tidied with such a simple act. 

‘What was that?’ My voice is scratchy with harnessed fury and comes out less cuttingly than I want it to. Clenching my fists at my sides, I try again without waiting for a response. ‘What the  _ hell _ was that?’

Finally meeting my gaze, Stella shrugs.

‘We weren’t getting anywhere with the touchy feely approach and it’s an hour’s drive back into the city. I just sped things up a little.’ Her nonchalance is the straw that breaks the back of my self control and I snap, hands flying to my hips while I fight to keep my words at a decibel level that won’t bring half the hospital to the door.

‘If THAT is how you speed things up in your investigations, DSI Gibson, I don’t think I want any further part in them. Why bring me here? Why bother with all the pleasantries about “alternate approaches” and “hearing past the bullshit” if you were just going to march in destroy any chance I might have had at getting the witness to trust me? Why come out here at all? You could have just dragged her to the mortuary and made her make those IDs in the flesh; why not wheel out a nice little identity parade of corpses for the poor woman! Did you even read her file? Read her history? My GOD Gibson! If I’d lived half the life she has I’d be shut away in here too and I wouldn’t be remotely interested in helping with a murder investigation. I’d probably be huddled in a corner in a drug induced stupor, not trying to help the police track down the kind of person I’d spent my whole life escaping from.’ I trail off, out of breath and am infuriated though unsurprised to find Stella watching me pace and rant with a cool, unaffected gaze. Her attitude, the constant withholding of key information and strategy, is as much a part of my frustration as what has just happened. I spent large parts of my career being shown only parts of a larger whole, but never at the hands of the person I was supposed to work most closely with. I came here as a favour, I trusted Stella with my time and my principles and she has not returned that favour.

‘Are you finished?’ she asks, though there’s no question in her demeanour and her tone is emotionless and slightly condescending. I seethe.

A sharp knock followed by a white-coated doctor interrupts our developing conflict and I settle instead for fixing Stella with the stony glare that reduced Mulder to silence on even his most incorrigible days. Unimpressed, Stella only stares back. 

Cooly reassuring the concerned doctor that we won’t be needing anything further from Miss DuBois this evening, my companion then maintains that she’s unsure what exactly caused his patient to spiral so completely into hysteria. Each syllable uttered chips slowly away at my respect for her and replaces it with a growing feeling that this is not a world I can be a part of any more. The years have given my memories of law-enforcement a rosy edge and I had forgotten the unpleasant taste of hardline tactics, the shady grey areas of ethical protocol. The sobering truth is that the first priority will always be the apprehension of the criminal. The wellbeing of those who might furnish the investigation with information is, at best, a secondary concern. My time away from the darkness has deprogrammed the clinical detachment which enabled me to see people as means to an end and replaced it with a doctor’s compassion. First, do no harm. I am convinced that Blanche DuBois knows something but I am not prepared to take her to pieces to find out what it is. There has to be another way, some way of drawing her into the light and the truth along with her, but I don’t think I’m going to be allowed the time to find it. 

In the neutral setting of a hotel room or a conference room, Stella Gibson and I are compatible partners. We share a thirst for knowledge and justice but, as an icy detente chills the the battlefield that Blanche DuBois’ room has become, it becomes clear that our methods are irreconcilable. 

With Stella’s business now concluded and my part of the investigation falling apart in another room, there is little point in prolonging our visit. Leaving is the logical, sensible thing to do.  Yet, as I sense Stella’s desire to leave quickly, I find some part of me bridles at following her lead. I resent her for undermining my presence, for redrawing the boundaries of our roles, but mostly for the the fact that that she did so publicly and with such nonchalant authority that any rebuttal from me sounds as petty as it is powerless. I didn't expect that Stella and I would agree on everything, but I had thought we would at least agree to honour the other's process, to respect and utilise our differences. Whatever has happened to alter Stella’s mindset, we entered this room as equals and I refuse to leave it at her heel. 

I pack up my notes deliberately slowly, sorting them fastidiously by relevance and taking pleasure in the rapidly accelerating tap of Stella’s heel, impatient on the floor. I can almost hear her thoughts, internally berating my maddening, methodical exit but tongue-tied by the knowledge that any reaction will destroy the facade of indifference she has cultivated. When I announce my intention to use the ladies’ room before our journey, her tight-lipped agreement is so satisfyingly frustrated that I almost wish that my delay was entirely designed to test her rather than a conveniently timed biological imperative. By the time I return to the room, ready to leave, Blanche has returned and Stella is gone. The orderly settling the former back in her bed tells me that the car is ready when I am. 

The room looks different in lamplight, softer and older somehow, like a painting faded by years in the sunlight. Though I know what has happened here today is not my fault, I can’t help feeling responsible.  I cross to the bed hoping I can find some way to make my excuses meaningful.

The apology on my lips is met with the red-rimmed stare of a broken woman. I have seen many shades of Blanche DuBois this evening but this last one is the most tragic and perhaps the most honest. There is no illusion of wellness, no colourful robe or constructed sentence between me and her. She sits, impossibly slight, against the washed-out pillowcases, knees drawn to her chest and arms wrapped tightly round, as if her desperate grip is all that holds her ragged pieces together. Her chin is sharp on her bent legs, breath short, eyes wide and lips trembling. Somehow in the rawness of this moment she looks younger than before, something in her countenance stripping away the aging effects of this place. I see a woman who is probably no more than five years my senior but who has lived a lifetime of suffering in those years. When I reach the bedside words fail me, and so I take the hand that she extends to me in supplication, bowing my head to the realisation that beyond this small kindness there is nothing I can do.

‘I thought of something.’ Blanche’s voice is a hoarse whisper but her words cut through my melancholy. Instinctively, I grip her hand harder as though my focus can shape the uneven strings of words tripping from her mouth into a streamlined, compelling truth.

‘There’s so much that doesn’t make sense. So much I don’t know - that I don’t want to know - I think that maybe people would be happier if they didn’t have the compulsion to know everything. I think I would have been happier... a lifetime of cloudy days doesn’t matter if you’ve never seen the sun. But I did. I craved it’s heat until the second it burned me. So, so, so bright. I can see it still in my mind even after all this time, even now that darkness is my oldest friend. Or it was until these dreams took over my hiding place and turned it wicked. Now, every night I wish upon every star I can name, every last constellation, every airplane and streetlight and shooting star… anything that means I won’t wake up in that killing room. 

This room isn’t really all that different from the dream room, all white and nowhere to get away, but I always know the second I’m awake whether I’m here or there. Even before the jasmine smell or the panic. I didn't think of it before because it’s not what happens once I’m awake in the dream. It is the sensation that takes me there that sets the two apart. When I wake up in here it’s soft and foggy but when I’m there it’s small and sharp, like a dressmaker’s pin. It fades out as the room fades in but it happens every time. A short sharp prick... then peace… just a moment… before the dying starts.’

She trails off and I feel her hand slacken in mine. My mind is awhirl with questions, specifics about this phantom pain, an injection maybe, but as I gather myself to ask the orderly shoots me a reprimanding look and I glance down to see Blanche drooping on the edge of sleep. 

Sensing that prolonging this encounter will only add injury to the unkindness of Stella’s earlier tactics, I withdraw and retrace the path to the car, deserted hallways echoing with footsteps and more questions than when I first passed this way. 

I realise that I am trapped between two impossibilities. On one side I have Stella, set on exploiting every possible lead but unwilling or unable to put aside her judgement or usual habits. On the other is Blanche, her testimony indelibly but impossibly linked to our case in a way that not even she can explain. How did I ever think I could bring today’s events to a satisfying conclusion? 

I suppose I assumed that Blanche would be a crank or an accomplice and that’s why, as furious I as I am with Stella for undermining me, I can understand her reaction. Long ago I stood in her shoes, believed that bending my rules would break down my scientific integrity, that to waver, or even to wonder, was to fail. But I have also believed in the Blanches of the world. There were times I stood at Mulder’s side and threw away all rationale to follow an improbable yet indubitable logic, trusting that proof would be waiting for us when we reached the end of our journey. And it was. Too often Mulder and I were the only ones who got to see that evidence before it vanished, but I can’t deny those experiences, my own empirical proof that sometimes extreme possibilities are very real. Inconvenient though it may be, I can’t deny that in Blanche DuBois I see that same spark of truth.

I only wish I knew how to reconcile it all into something that makes sense beyond the realm of my own instincts. Stepping out of Riverview’s doors and into the sticky heat of a New Orleans night, I know that the car ride back to the city is my last opportunity to influence the path of this investigation. As my steps count me back to the car and Gibson’s disapproving silence, I wrack my brain for a way to convey in one conversation that which it took me nine years of living the X-Files to understand. It’s not going to be easy but I have to try and satisfy the small, persistent voice that tells me, however unlikely it may seem, that the truth we seek is lying in the back of that hospital, tucked away in the mind of a damaged woman.

The car door swings open on a wave of cold air and colder energy. Stella is focussed entirely on her phone and doesn’t acknowledge my arrival with anything more than a curt, ‘The Hilton, please,’ to the driver’s destination enquiry. In the time it takes me to formulate an opening sentence that is the perfect mix of conciliatory pleasantry and assertive demand, the lights of Riverview have faded to nothing and Stella has begun a phone call with the FBI which lasts the duration of the drive. I tune out her impassive account of our “wasted” trip and instead go back over my conversations with Blanche. I look between the sentences for links to the case, for anything that could answer one of Stella’s questions and convince her that this deserves further scrutiny, a trump card that I can play in the dwindling seconds that I share her company, if not her attention.

In the end, my failure to do so is irrelevant. Pulling up at the hotel Stella stacks her belonging under one arm and, as she climbs out of the backseat, covers the mouthpiece with her other hand only long enough to deliver what is clearly a dismissal.

‘Thank you for your help Dr. Scully. Email your report to the field office.’ And then the door is shut and my part in the case is closed. 

I sit, stunned at the brusqueness of it all, half-ready to run away from the confusion, the darkness, and the conflict, back to the safety of Mulder and the known world. But then I remember that running away is what brought me here in the first place, that all that waits for me at home is more confusion, darkness and a silent, unacknowledged conflict that is crumbling the foundations of my life. I waver between two uncertain paths: one well travelled and headed nowhere and the other stretching blindly into the dark. 

The driver’s voice is stretched thin with end-of-the-day tiredness as he asks, ‘Did you want me to take you to the airport, ma’am?’

My lips decide before my brain has a chance to. ‘No. Take me to the morgue.’


	7. Post-Mortem

I’m not sure how much time has passed since the heavy doors of the morgue sealed me away with only my thoughts for company.  Doubt and reason echo in confusing cacophony around this hollow room. There is always a timelessness to this type of inbetween place; the dead will remain dead no matter what I do, and yet, tonight, I feel feel a sense of urgency, some ticking secret that is running steadily away from me. Something dark.

I was confident when talked my way past the receptionist, dropping DSI Gibson’s name heavily on her objections, but now, alone with the bodies I feel like a stranger. It’s been years since I’ve spent this much time among the dead, since I’ve breathed this formaldehyde air for long enough to become accustomed to the chill, the smell and the quiet. I purposefully distanced myself from law enforcement, conspiracy and all the confusing darkness of the X-Files, but my withdrawal from pathology had been less calculated and so I assumed it would be easier to go back to.

I was wrong. I have made myself at home now in hubbub and humanity of a busy hospital, got used to taking my blood and bleeding with a chance of recovery. I recognise all the markings of the morgue, it is a cordial reunion, but I feel somehow like an outsider in this silent place. It’s almost like I have walked away and returned to a pale facsimile of the real thing, a film-set reality. I shake myself. Maybe the distance is the hangover of my conflict with Gibson. Or maybe it’s the fact that I have only been allowed in as an observer; I can read and I can review but I may not touch, may not open up the bodies and learn their secrets in my own way. These autopsies are complete, test results pending on all but the first victim. All I can do is look on and try to connect someone else’s dots. But it feels like more than just distance, like something is wrong and a foreboding knots tightly with my feeling that we are running out of time. I press back hard at those lingering thoughts, determined to rise above whatever strange mood has gripped me and do my best by these women in the time I have left. After all, it’s hardly the first case where I’ve come in at this stage of an investigation. Bad timing has never before stopped the dead from telling me their stories.

Digging in my purse for a rubber band, I scrape my hair back, shuddering at the cool air on the nape of my neck. I snap on latex gloves from the smallest box, drawing my old self over my uncertainty and force myself into the past. A quick external exam is my only means of corroborating the information I have been given and, if it all matches up, if I can find nothing to support my doubts, I will walk away. My trip to the morgue was born out of frustration, rebellion, and a feeling that I, along with the investigation, am missing something important. Time and fatigue are chipping away at that idea, urged by Stella’s dismissal leaning heavily against my conviction as it teeters on the shaky foundation of Blanche’s testimony. Maybe I should just go home. I can admit that the visit to the hospital has shaken me, made me question things I haven’t questioned in a long time, but I’m beginning to wonder if I wasn’t just looking for something to believe in, trying to play Mulder’s part. Perhaps my feelings about Blanche’s testimony say more about me than they do about her, the old Scully would never have responded so violently to Stella’s scepticism or confronted her in so heated a way over her methods.  It’s been a long day of high hopes and intense conversations coming to an end now in gruesome reality. Even if the truth is lying on these gurneys, it may not be mine to find.

But I am here and so are they.

Four women, dragged from their lives to stand as pawns in the fantasies of a madman and abandoned when their part was played out. They lie, the unmoving points of a compass, that will lead us to their killer if only we can find somewhere to start. If we can just find a pattern, something to make sense of all the scattered clues, to map out a man who could do these things to them. His capture will be some small settlement against the impossible loss we will return to their families, a tarnished silver lining to cloud their remembrance. I know that bitter comfort too well, but there is some release in burying the washed out shell of someone you love and knowing their killer has been stopped. For a family, it’s a sort of closure, firm ground above the storm of grief and the clumsy black tideline of autopsy stitches holding things together. But an arrest alone is not enough for the investigation. Even if we find their killer, will be long buried by the time we are finished fighting. Every shred of evidence, every shadow of motive will be held up to the scrutinizing light of a courtroom, tested by the untrained process of a jury, until the man who wrote this sickening story on the flesh of four women is proven guilty or set free. I shudder at the thought. This is the six-week haul of a predator I have no doubt is only just beginning to feed his urge. Whatever differences DSI Gibson and I may foster, for now I am here. The least I can do in my last few hours in the city is apply my unusual expertise and try to contribute in some way to the people trying to stop him.

I tap the record button on Mulder’s phone and break the graveyard silence as I step up to the first body.

‘Victim is a female Caucasian, identified as Jennie Stokes, 27. No signs of external trauma, no obvious predation, minimal decomposition. Condition of the body is consistent with a relatively short window between time of death and discovery of the body. Autopsy report lists cause of death as heart failure, induced by an unknown external factor; the victim had no preexisting medical condition which would contribute to a natural death by cardiac event. Initial Toxicology could isolate no one agent that may have caused heart failure and further tests are being conducted, results due in the next couple days.’

The story is similar on victim two, Lianne Chang, 22; no obvious trauma, no bizarre anomalies on my sweep of the body, the autopsy report and the tox screen. One evening she stayed behind to lock up her travel agency and 52 hours later she was found dead in Crescent Park by an early morning jogger. Victim three, Miranda Vernay, 44, of Atlanta, Georgia, complicates the pattern. A tourist, an older woman and a new cause of death. Asphyxia with no sign of strangulation, the markers on the body telling a different story but of the same origin: death by way of some as yet unidentified chemical, introduced by some as yet unknown method.

There are too many unknowns, too many questions. I begin to understand what Gibson means when she says there are both clear connections and confusing differences between the victims; their killer is both a man of habit and an adaptable predator. The women before me have little besides their gender in common and yet there is no doubt in my mind that they fell prey to the same man. Even without the flower there are small similarities that link them: they have almost identical stomach contents, a last meal of instant soup and cheap white bread, a strangely homely gesture in the face of their impending deaths; they have been washed with the same brand of household soap, their hair with the same cheap imported shampoo; and the crime scene photographs show them laid out in a grim approximation of sleep, hands at their sides, flowers blooming between airless lips.

I turn to the most recent victim, Nanette Arnaud, 24, college senior and freshly autopsied. Somehow she is more alive to me than the other three. She is exactly as Blanche DuBois described her, petite and pretty, nutmeg brown skin warm against the steel of the table. She has a small mole on her cheek, not far from where my own lingers persistently under the makeup I use to cover it. That seems such a petty vanity now, in the presence of a young woman whose entire potential has been wiped away in an act of senseless violence, everything she was now reduced to lines of data in a casefile and the memories of those who knew her. I examine her gently, praying for inspiration and find nothing. No signs of external trauma, no answers traced in the lines of her palms or the short hairs behind her ears.

I wanted so badly to find something here, no matter how slight the chances were that my old habits would find something a practicing pathologist has missed. The last 24 hours seem now to have been an exercise in great expectation and dull reality. At every turn I believed I could be of assistance, could make a difference, and at every stage I have found myself lacking. It’s hardly the escape I was hoping for, so I discard my rose-tinted glasses along with my gloves and gather myself to leave. The chill weight of my watch at my wrist tells me it’s coming up on 4am, that I’ve gone 26 hours without sleep and that there’s a flight to take home just three hours away. I let the call of the familiar drag me to the door. Even Mulder’s silence will be less oppressive than the unyielding vacuum of this room.

And then I smell it. Faint and utterly foreign.

I stall and it passes, just one more trick of the mind I suppose. Until it is there again, jasmine blossoming impossibly in the cloyingly cold air and beckoning me back across the room. It grows with every step until I stand once again over Nanette Arnaud, my shadow adding depth to the deep contours of her body under its crisp white sheet. The scent grows, becoming almost unbearable when I uncover her and for a horrid flash I smell other things: decay and blood and stale sheets and then nothing. There is still nothing here.

I walk a lap of the gurney to calm myself, struggling to rationalise away what I have just experienced. Every textbook in my past tells me that the phantom smell is some strange manifestation of my exhaustion, that a tired mind is a suggestible one and that my nose is hardly my most reliable sense. I have seen, heard and touched every piece of evidence available to me and found nothing helpful. At the end of the day, that has to be my cut-off point. I am a scientist, a medical doctor, and I can’t allow my unexpected personal entanglement with a witness to alter my point of view. Regretfully, I reach over to straighten the toe tag that ties together the body and its identity. As I grasp the cool cardboard a shiver runs over me and I jerk away, loosening the tag and tugging the toes slightly apart, cursing my overactive imagination and the resulting clumsiness.

And that’s when I see it.

I blink hard, sure that I’m seeing spots but it doesn’t move. I turn away, shakily find a fresh pair of gloves and return to my standpoint. It’s still there. A tiny dot, almost invisible and right where the toe tag would have been looped since the moment she was matched to her missing person’s report. I pull myself together enough to find a magnifying lens and stare blankly at what is quite possibly an injection site, Nestled deep between the valley of her toes it blends into the texture of her skin, little larger than a hair follicle and only a shade darker. It would have been easy to miss, the search for needle marks generally focusing on more accessible places especially as this forensic team hadn’t even been sure they were looking for an injection site; the lack of direction from the toxicologist had left them with a lot of ground to cover, endless tissue to search. If it hadn’t been for the strange perfume, for that unexpected shudder accidentally disturbing the toes I would never have seen it.

I cross to the body of Miranda Vernay and bend to examine her feet. There it is again, muddied by the smudge of fake tan gathered in the cleft between her pinkie and her next toe is a tiny prick mark. A dressmaker’s pin, Blanche called it, striking again in the shadow of one of Jennie Stokes’ freckles and in the partial syndactyly of Lianne Chang’s second and third toes. These are the marks of a fine needle in a practiced hand, no pressure from an overzealous application has added bruising to the tiny wounds that our killer has hidden as completely as possible.

If he is this thorough in his delivery of his killing stroke then it stands to reason that he would be as careful in his choice of weapon. I photograph my findings, and start to mentally catalogue drugs that would leave no trace on a standard tox screen, intravenous drugs that could trigger the sort of catastrophic reactions that ended these women’s lives. The list is surprisingly short and I scribble down my ideas on a fresh page of my notebook, hopelessness fading through the paper as I realise this strange string of events could give the toxicology lab a new focus, a place to narrow their search…. I can’t wait to tell Mu-

No. This is not the X-Files and Mulder doesn’t even know I’m here. The call I have to make will be devoid of shared excitement, possibly even confrontational. That’s assuming Stella Gibson even picks up.

* * *

 

Stella tosses her phone on the side table with more force than necessary, taking small satisfaction in the snick of a sleek corner denting on the hardwood top. It’s gone 4am and she can’t sleep, the last phone call just one more waste of time to finish a day of running hard at dead ends.

The agent on the phone sounded as though he would rather be sticking his head in a bear’s cave than be making the call, and Stella gave as good as she got, cursing herself as much for not making it clear she wasn’t to be disturbed as she did the field office  for disturbing her.

Blanche DuBois had had another dream; the story relayed via a harried doctor who said that his patient had to be sedated and had been screaming Gibson and Scully’s names amongst other, less logical things. He sounded as tired in the recorded message as Stella felt, that bone deep weariness that dulls every positive energy and sharpens every flaw. She tells the agent not to bother the people searching through Jane Does with this new description, as there will be plenty more promising wild geese to chase in this investigation, and then hangs up without pleasantry.

The agent’s sullen reticence concerns her and she decides that she’ll take in donuts in the morning to sweeten the sour taste of her presence in the field office; as the outsider she can't afford to be thoroughly disliked, though she hates the half-hearted platitudes that seem to carry weight in law enforcement this side of the Atlantic. Back in the UK the sound of her heels outside a conference room is enough to command a hush and nobody mistakes the silky fabric of her shirts for softness or worse, an invitation for flirtation. She worked for that respect, refusing to become one of the boys but demanding they make space for her in their clubhouse. Stella is satisfied that ripples of her reputation preceded her arrival in New Orleans, curtailing the most obnoxious misogyny and the laziest would-be suitors, but there is a long way to go before these men, and _still_ they are mostly men, will afford her the respect they give her male FBI equivalent.

She sighs. The Blanche DuBois thing has not helped matters. Something in her gut told her there was something there, that maybe a relative or an ex-boyfriend was sending Miss Blanche sick love notes with the descriptions of dead girls in them. That would have explained the dreams, given her a starting point, but instead of leaping forward she’d taken two huge steps back; firstly in the destruction of her theory, and secondly in the gossip that will no doubt follow her back to the field office due to the hasty involvement and equally hasty dismissal of the former X-Files department.

Stella rolls on to her back with a guttural sigh. For a few hours, working with Dana Scully had been refreshing. The woman was smart, successful and the kind of person Stella would drink with after a case if it weren’t for the fact that she were also completely delusional. There are all kinds of liars in the world, from the truly malignant sociopath to the bashfully guilty child. Blanche DuBois is on that spectrum, somewhere between macabre imagining and being deeply, pathologically disturbed, but somehow she got into Scully’s head. There was no mistaking the light of belief in the woman’s eyes and though she’d remained rational in her questioning, Stella had known from her history that her objectivity had likely been compromised.

Scully’s reaction to the photograph test had been a testament to that. Yes, it had been hard on Blanche but as far as Stella was concerned the woman was under suspicion of withholding information and any tactic was fair game as long as it was legal. Some small voice in the back of her head starts to whisper that Blanche is not linked to the crimes by any more than coincidental dreams but she hushes it, squeezing her eyes closed and trying to find a quiet thought that will let her sleep.

Her phone starts to buzz again on the bedside table and she slaps at it angrily, silencing the ringer and pushing it off the table and onto the carpet. She’ll deal with whoever it is tomorrow. The FBI have her room phone number if it’s a real emergency and if she doesn’t get some rest her brain is going to short circuit. She closes her eyes and wills herself to sleep.

Thirty minutes later Stella’s eyes snap open, flashing ice blue frustration at the incessant working of her mind.The endless loop of information plays over a soundtrack of Blanche DuBois’ stories, hot surges of anger, disappointment and the bitter understanding in Dana Scully’s eyes when Stella dismissed her. She is no closer to sleep than she is to the killer, but that doesn’t mean she can’t work off some of the stress and frustration. The hotel pool will open in less than an hour and until then there are soft sheets and satin pajamas…

Sliding one hand into her pajama bottoms, Stella sighs. She’s too tired to be really aroused but she knows that with five minutes of long-perfected pressure she can rely on her nerve endings to burn off at least some of her tension. Usually she’d take the time to unfasten the tiny buttons along her breastbone, to tease herself through the satin, under the satin, reminding herself of those years in her teenage bedroom when she learned her body so well that by the time she shared it with another she could lecture him on exactly when, where, and how long to touch her. But tonight she has no energy for self-seduction, only the basest need for release and despite a standing start she knows that two fingers and a circling thumb will take her where she wants to go.

Her rhythm is steady, unhurried as the tick of the wall clock and right on schedule she starts to collect sparks in her spine and her toes. She arches into the sensation, breath coming harder now and pulse joining the race to her climax when it all falls apart with the peals of the desk telephone.

‘Fuck!’ She snaps her hand away and throws her head back in a bitter approximation of her scuppered orgasm before storming off the bed and over to the desk.

‘Gibson,’ is her curt warning as she listens, stony faced to AD Gilmore’s update.

‘SHIT!’ When she finally hangs up a steady chant of panic and impossibility chases the adrenaline through her body. Retrieving her mobile from the floor she sees three missed calls and as many voice messages from Dana Scully, and her stomach drops at the conversation she’s about to have, at the impossibility of what she’s being asked to do and the implications of this latest development.

Stella straightens her pajamas and stands tall, shoulders back in some approximation of composure as she hits dial, wondering for three endless rings if Dr. Scully will even answer when a voice cuts through the noise, frosty politeness on a cold wind of resentment.

‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you DSI Gibson,’ is Scully’s only greeting, the rancour in her tone adding all the detailed displeasure that her words leave unspoken. Stella flinches slightly, unsurprised but still chilled by the difference between this voice and the one she’d first encountered. But, with the phone call to mask her physical agitation, all Stella has to do is find some formal non-apology for her recent inaccessibility and make her request; the past is passed and this is hardly the first time she’s had to handle a specialist’s ire.

‘Dr. Scully. I… We’ve had a busy night, hence my delay in contacting you and picking up your earlier messages...’

Silence.

‘It seems we’re not the only ones not sleeping. We have another body. And…,’ she hesitates, as if time will make what she’s about to say less implausible, the silence thickening in the coils of the phoneline. ‘It seems that Blanche DuBois somehow witnessed the death. From her room. As it happened.’

A slow exhale is Scully’s only response though Stella feels her animosity start to ebb away in its wake. There is a long pause as they both try to figure out what this means, what this says about their beliefs and reservations. After an eternity Scully speaks.

‘I’m at the airport. And I found something.’

Stella nods. Of course the infamous Dr. Scully would not have just walked away when told to, and thank god. It seems perhaps her particular brand of delusion might be exactly what Stella needs. Scanning the room for her dry cleaning, she mentally adds a quick shower and the journey time.

‘I’ll be there in 40 minutes.’

* * *

_It’s more brutal this time and she comes to with the gasp of those waking moments when you’re falling with lungs screaming for air and terror caught in your teeth. Dim light bleeds through her eyelids washing with it that sickly sweet perfume. Where she used to smell jasmine there is now only fear. The scent of death._

_Five previous trips to this killing room should leave the outcome beyond a doubt, and yet hope sends her heartbeat and breath into a ragged, desperate race for some alternative ending. The sharp pain strikes, an accompanying pressure restraining her ankle as she tries to escape the needle and the wave of heaviness that chases it up her body._

_She fights the stillness, fights the inevitable and thrashes against the hard surface she is lying on. Seconds pass as hours before she manages to drop one leg over the edge and starts a reaction which gravity amplifies, a slow, desperate slither towards the ground and a flicker of hope punching through. This has never happened before._

_But then there are hands, dragging her back and the heaviness is not just in her blood but on top of her. Crackling plastic sticks to her sweat slick skin as the man who hides in the shadows holds her down. One last, despairing struggle runs through her, but he has tamed her movement, extinguished her hope. There is a triangle of light creeping past the edge of the displaced blindfold but she closes her eyes. She does not want the last thing she ever sees to be the man who killed her._

_She counts her heartbeats and remembers instead: a diamond ring on a white tablecloth, summers on the bayou, smiling, laughing, dancing…._

_Then nothing._

_Blanche DuBois looks down on the girl in whose mind she has just watched wedding plans, lazy Sundays and dancing in the rain. How dull she looks in this place after the vibrant shades of her memory and yet still she is pure light compared to the crouched shadow of a man who hovers over her still, waiting to be sure that this time his prize will not try to escape._

_‘You bastard’, Blanche mutters, surprised to find that her voice works, but nowhere near as surprised as the man beneath her whose head snaps upwards, pale eyes searching for the source of the sound invading his most secret place._

_For the first time his face is not shrouded in shadow and as light floods the cruel lines of his face Blanche shrinks away, wishing more than ever that she were anywhere but this small, deadly room. She presses her eyes shut and screams and screams. She doesn’t stop screaming when she feels warm hands shaking her gently or when someone peels one eyelid back to show the blurry, concerned face of her doctor. She doesn’t stop screaming until she feels again the sharp scrape of a needle and then a welcoming, warm nothingness carries her away from everything._


	8. Purgatory

_ From a distance, through a dusty window or a light mist, it would be possible to mistake them for sisters; three women, all petite, all finished with the awkwardness of youth but not yet bent by age. If you were to describe any one of them you’d have a good basic description of the other two, and yet they are all so very different. _

_   
_ _ Two blondes and a redhead. Two in suits, one in a crumpled summer dress. Two who wear their womanhood bold on their sleeves and one who conceals it behind a mask of reservation. _

_   
_ _ Two innocent and one guilty. Two that he would kill if he had to and the one for whom he had been searching all these years. The one who got away. _

_   
_ _ The one he has to have. _

_   
_ _ Not now though. _

_   
_ _ Now an army of police and barricades of tape stand between him, stalwart in the inked darkness of the treeline, and them, drifting ghostly between the warm light of the doorway and the flashing beacon of the cruiser. For a few moments they linger, two solid shadows and one flickering wraith in the twilight transience of his inbetween place, becoming landmarks, markers in his emptiness before they step once more into solid reality and are lost to him. _

_   
_ _ He is no stranger to loss, its weight and its permanence. He knows its every form, has felt and tasted and smelled it until it is as real to him as her memory. He has mapped the unknowable, described absence in such devastating detail that he is sure now he can recreate it, reclaim what is lost. Conquer it.  _

_   
_ _ Kill it. _

_   
_ _ The engines roar past and he steps back deeper into the shadows, watching the fogged lightbox windows of the cars pass with a practiced numbness. He is willing to wait, to let them have their light a little longer. A few days is neither here nor there when an eternity awaits him and her, together forever in the jasmine darkness. _


	9. Animosity

_72 hours earlier_

There is no cordial greeting or tussle for dominance when Scully and Stella reunite at the airport, no apology by either party for boundaries overstepped or trust betrayed. Stella offers only the bare bones of the latest murder, a brusque report of her phone conversation with the officer on the scene and the headlines from happenings at Riverview Psychiatric. Scully responds with her findings from the morgue, conveyed with such matter-of-fact concision that her findings become not only a breakthrough but a rebuke. Stella accepts the stack of notes offered, wordlessly acknowledging that Dana Scully has done what the task force could not. She has advanced the case with real, scientific data and become the opposite of the paranormal decoy they intended her to be.

But it is too soon for a truce and Stella is not yet willing to offer even a hint of an apology. Instead, she offers the only concession she is willing to surrender: her car keys. It is a tiny gesture, dropped wordlessly into Scully’s hands. The silent journey that follows is broken only by the rustle of neat, detailed autopsy notes transferring information from the observations of one woman into the theories of the other.  

They arrive at the station in a lightning storm of flashbulbs, the media scenting a serial case and waiting for something, anything, to shout about. There’s an anticipatory hush as they park and step out and then a murmur of disappointment. At least for now they are unknowns, nameless women in plain clothes, passing unseen in a setting where the important announcements are made by men with big badges and bigger guns. Stella smirks a little as this small act of everyday sexism shields them from the flurry of questions that buffets the essentially irrelevant uniforms who swing in seconds later. These officers accompany an unmarked vehicle, and an unfortunately loud police scanner reveals to the waiting press the arrival of a witness. The flashbulbs explode again, reflecting jaggedly on the tinted windows that hide Blanche. A uniformed officer approaches to open the door and Scully presses forward, instinctively knowing that exposing the fragile woman to this circus is a terrible idea.

But even as she processes the thought and begins to move, Stella is there, exerting her steely authority over the harried officers.

‘You. Take her to the back entrance. Now. And you two hold the press here. We have no comment at this time. Understood?’

Instinctively obeying her, the driver is on the move before Stella has finished speaking, whilst the two uniforms prevent the press from following. In the bustle, one man sneaks past, but Scully grabs his sleeve, distracting him for long enough that he misses Blanche’s removal into the building. By the time the pack of journalists work out what is happening, Scully is inside with Stella on her heels, the back of their heads caught only by the photographer closest to the door before they are safely inside the lobby. As the door seals shut, a gale of shouts starts up, demanding to know who they are, who was in the car, and whether or not New Orleans has a serial killer on its streets. Scully and Stella retreat into the depths of the building, putting fire doors and linoleum between them and all the questions that they don’t yet have an official answer to.

They halt at the double doors of the incident room, adrenaline spent and harsh reality awaiting. Another victim, another life lost, and maybe this time they could have stopped it. Scully feels again the ache of Mulder’s absence, the niggling feeling that with his belief, his instincts, he might somehow have ended things differently with Blanche the night before. Perhaps he might still have been with her when the incident began, and they they might somehow have saved the victim. At the least, they might have known more about exactly what Blanche had gone through before her screaming drew the doctors to her room. Scully knows it’s improbable but she’s seen more improbable things happen than most. Stella’s doubts are more readily quashed, the emotional sting of perceived failure firmly subdued by the irrefutable fact that professionally she is beyond reproach. Every lead was followed, every avenue explored and there is no way to know if a different act at any point would have changed anything. Second guessing has no place in a police investigation and so, as the door swings away from her, Stella writes off the uneasy feeling in her belly as sleep deprivation or maybe hunger.

‘Gibson! Finally! It’s about time you got here! Do you have any idea how fucking impossible it is to explain a psychic witness to the Deputy Director of the FBI when the woman with all the facts is off on some girls’ trip out to the morgue?’

Special Agent Kyle Stanning’s bullish tone is matched by the set of his jaw and the tense angle of his shoulders. Striding across the busy incident room to collect them, his indignation cuts a path through file-shuffling rookies and morning-weary agents. He doesn’t look back to check they are following, pausing only to snatch a coffee from the breakfast spread before positioning himself at the head of the long table tucked in the back corner of the room and indicating they join him. As they arrange themselves side-by-side in the next seats down, Agent Stanning makes a show of reordering his notes and Scully feels a wave of irritation wash over her usually stoic companion. Before she can begin to work out why, the table fills, the chatter fades and Stella is once again the picture of composure.

‘Good morning everyone,’ Stanning begins before countering his own introduction with a bitter half-smile. ‘Actually, you know, it’s not been a very good morning. It’s been goddamn disastrous really. We have another body, another seemingly useless crime scene and to top it off, the press have caught on that something big is going down. All of which means our status has shifted. Yesterday, all we really needed was to catch the bastard. Today we need to catch him, catch him fast and look so good doing it that the headlines read “Heroic FBI Stops Sadistic Murderer in Record Time.” Anyone who doesn’t understand that can leave right now and I’ll have you reassigned to fertiliser checks. It’s that simple. Anyone want out?’

He pauses for effect. ‘Increased scrutiny also means that everything, and I mean _everything_ , goes by the book. No hunch following, wisecracking to witnesses or mad tangents. Speaking of which –’ His eyes flicker to Stella. ‘We need to discuss the elephant in the room, or rather the witness in Room 2. Miss Blanche Dubois. Details concerning her presence here, her status within the investigation and her… theoretical “affliction” must - not - leave - this - room. If they do, you’ll all have me to answer to.’

An obedient murmur follows Stanning’s warning and people awkwardly shuffle and avoid eye contact. Stanning himself does not scan the room and instead fixes his eyes firmly on the side of Gibson’s head as she underlines something in her notebook, composed and cool. A hush settles back across the assembled taskforce, but he doesn’t shift his gaze and Stella does not return his attention. The silence stretches awkwardly, and the wall of suits seems to lean in as it becomes pointed, focussed on the seemingly one-sided stand-off at the head of the table.

For a moment, Scully is reminded of the way Mulder would scrutinise her as she read his reports, waiting for her to react, his eyes boring a questioning hole in the side of her head as if he could convince her to validate his mad theory by just looking at her hard enough. But the parallel is shattered when a frustrated Stanning admits defeat and speaks again, his bright tone not disguising the disapproval of his words.

‘Those of us who were here on time for the emergency briefing should be up to speed with last night’s happenings, so I’m going to skip over that. No point wasting time when DSI Gibson has some… important findings… which kept her away yesterday and this morning, to share with the room. If you’d be so kind _Stella_ …’ His voice trails to a questioning drawl and one corner of his mouth curves in challenge.

‘Thank you, Kyle,’ Stella’s tone is as light as his was laden with meaning and she sits back in her chair resting her hands lightly in the stack of notes before her. Ever so subtly she rotates the chair towards Scully and the rest of the gathered agents, refocusing their attention squarely on herself and effectively dismissing Agent Stanning’s dramatic introduction as nothing more than the opening act for the true professional. Turning further she presents Stanning with the blank silk of her back and gestures at Scully with a warm smile.

‘For those of you who haven’t already met her, I’m very pleased to introduce Dr. Dana Scully who has been assisting me since her arrival yesterday morning. Dr. Scully was formerly with the bureau and has already been a tremendous asset to the investigation; her brief forensic inspection at the morgue, during which she identified concealed needle marks common to all the existing victims, has given us a much-needed focus in determining a murder weapon.’ An impressed ripple rushes round the table and for the first time since arriving at the station in Stella’s wake, Scully feels like part of a team rather than the poor, paranormal relation. The feeling doesn’t last long.

‘Yes. Very interesting findings, though I can’t find any record of Ms. Scully being signed into the morgue or issued with clearance to conduct-’ Stanning’s accusation is harshly curtailed by the impatient flick of Stella’s slim hand and the slightly raised crystal of her voice.

‘ _Doctor_ Scully was there under my orders and with the appropriate permissions issued by Dr. Quinn, the chief medical examiner. If the paperwork has yet to be filed, _perhaps_ that might be to do with your demand that her entire staff put in overtime to process your latest crime scene as a matter of urgency. Either way - we have a lead. You’ll have your paperwork.’

Scully is not sure what surprises her more, Stella lying to cover for her or Stanning’s openly antagonistic interruption. He is now leaning as far forward in his chair as is possible without physically climbing on the table, an attempt to insinuate himself back into Stella’s orbit and reclaim control of them head of the table. Having failed to do either, he opens his mouth, presumably with a new plan of attack on the tip of his tongue, only to once again be brought up short by Stella’s unhurried, deliberate speech.

‘I can tell that Special Agent Stanning is dying to cross-examine me and Dr. Scully about our visit to Riverview Psychiatric yesterday and our observations there of Miss Dubois, the witness. I feel, however, that processing the influx of new evidence should probably take priority, so I’ll keep this brief; listening to Stanning and me negotiate our way through inter-agency bureaucracy is probably not the best use of everybody’s talents.’ A chuckle follows Stella’s pointed statement and stops short of Stanning who bristles behind her as she continues. ‘All that really needs to be said at this stage is that we are convinced Miss Dubois is in some way linked to the killer. We don’t yet know how exactly or what it might mean, but further investigation and an extended interview will surely reveal more useful information. I’ve prepared a brief round-up of the key points thus far, and Hannah has a copy for each of you to read at your convenience after we’re done here.’ She gestures at a slight brunette tucked unobtrusively in the corner who waves awkwardly at the sudden attention. ‘Now, unless anyone has any burning questions or Agent Stanning has any objections…’ She pauses barely long enough for her antagonistic colleague to draw breath, let alone gather his thoughts, and immediately continues, ‘…then we’re done here and I’ll see you all at this afternoon’s catch-up.’

Sweeping her notes under one arm as the noise level begins to rise, Stella turns to Scully and says, ‘Grab some breakfast and I’ll meet you in fifteen to prep for the interview. And _Kyle_?’ She doesn’t even make eye contact as she begins to walk away, raising her voice just loud enough to ring clearly across the noise of people returning to their work. ‘Why don’t you come to my office and I’ll get you caught up as quickly as I can - I agree that we don’t want to waste any more time.’ There’s a momentary dip of disbelief in the hubbub as Agent Stanning sits frozen, and then a scramble to get out of his way as he rapidly reassembles his macho facade and storms after the petite, retreating figure of Stella Gibson.

As the door to the corner office slams loudly, Scully sits slightly staggered in the vacuum left behind them, wondering what in the hell she has walked into and whether, based on Stanning’s rising colour, she’ll soon be needing her expertise on the phenomenon of spontaneous human combustion. She’s halfway to the breakfast cart when the shouting starts.

* * *

‘Goddamnit Stella! We don’t have to like each other but do you have to make me look incompetent in front of my juniors as well as the Assistant Director?’

Kyle Stanning is six foot two of offended male ego and Stella is not in the mood for it.  She debates saying as much, but knows if he doesn’t vent his head of steam now there will be an uglier explosion in the near future, so she crosses her hands in front of her, leans on the edge of the desk and tries not to yawn. She’s so very, very tired.

‘You _insist_ on bringing this outside doctor in to handle your weirdo witness. I sign it off, against my better judgement may I add, and then before I know it, the two of you are off together, progressing the case and I’m suddenly out of the loop? What happened to that partnership we toasted your first night in the city huh? Where was _that_ Stella Gibson when I was getting my ass handed to me by AD Gilmore for not knowing what the fuck was happening in my own investigation? And since when do you decide what we do and don’t discuss at briefings? Are you really that offended by what I said that night to need to question everything I do? You know how these places work Stella! Reputation! And mine was doing pretty well for itself until you turned up and started throwing doubt at my ability to do my job. I thought working with you was gonna be a laugh. God was I an idiot.’ His bluster spent, voice lowering to a frustrated buzz he flops back in his chair and folds his arms.

She might be almost five thousand miles from Scotland Yard but it seems to Stella that the frailty of the male ego is a universal constant. She weighs her options and her energy and decides that this time correcting his outlandish conclusions is not the priority. Stella has an interview to conduct and for that reason, this time, Stanning earns a reprieve.

‘Kyle, if you’re quite finished with the dramatics then I can catch you up on this loop you seem so concerned with being out of. I called you from the car yesterday. You knew as much as I did at the point of last night’s alert, Dr. Scully and I weren’t scheduled to meet until this morning, until the circumstances changed. That’s all there is to it. That and a murderer’s crappy timing.

You and I agreed before I even landed that we’d keep investigating this in our own ways, share our intel and stay in touch and that’s all I’m trying to do. Things like last night catch us all off guard! It wouldn’t have mattered how much you knew, the AD was going to react badly to another victim. Besides, I’m sure if you really felt under pressure, you’d have made it clear the gap in communication was my fault…?’ Stella pauses and Stanning has the decency to look embarrassed, confirming her suspicion that he has already thrown her under the bus to save his own ass. She manages not to roll her eyes at his predictability before continuing in a tone neutral enough to placate even the most inflamed ego… or the most frustrated one.

‘As for your team? I’m pretty sure none of them had any idea there was tension between us until your little display this morning. Honestly I wasn’t aware of it either. We’re adults and I thought the issue was closed. If, however, you can’t handle the non-drama of our deciding not to sleep together after a couple of drinks, then I think we do have a problem. Knowing that something _so_ insignificant can shake things so dramatically, I’d put the chances of us solving this case successfully at approximately zero. And I don’t think you want that. So shall we put all of that,’ Stella waves a hand in his general direction, unable or unwilling to verbalise what exactly about him she finds fault with, ‘firmly in the past where it belongs? Surely we can at least agree on that?’

Stanning looks ready to argue but is smart enough to recognise in the set of Stella’s shoulders and the measured cool of her voice that she has offered him an olive branch. She’s so far maintained a neutral expression but her eyes are steel-solid and unforgiving, telling Stanning that if he argues, Stella is not above rescinding her offer and making things increasingly uncomfortable for him. Outmanoeuvred, he nods curtly.

‘Fine. I guess I was a little… stressed… this morning,’ Stella fights to keep her disbelieving eyebrow under control, ‘But can you blame me? Last night was a helluva night and you walked in so cool and collected…well it threw me.’ Stella wonders why men always find the ability of women to function after a setback so hard to process; the lack of tears or hysteria that they expect from their own sex seems to unsettle them when it manifests in their female colleagues. Stanning seems to expect a response to this concession, maybe a pat on the head for his begrudging acceptance his second chance, and when he doesn’t get one he stumbles on. ‘So, what exactly did the good doctor find that we missed?’

Stella flips open her folder and starts to go through the photographs and notes that Scully handed over, equally thankful for Stanning’s instinct for self-preservation and her new consultant’s meticulous record keeping. The catch-up is mercifully brief, affording Stanning few opportunities to put his foot any further in his mouth, and Stella escapes without the facade of politeness she has pasted over her gathering irritation cracking. When she emerges, the incident room is mercifully quiet and for a few blissful minutes she is able to sit at a desk and marshall her thoughts.

Something about Blanche Dubois is niggling at her. Something that doesn’t add up… doesn’t fit. These dreams she’s having must be coming from somewhere, dreams always do. Stella’s own dream diary is a complex web of connections made and scenarios unravelled in ways that her waking mind cannot fully comprehend. If that was all Blanche was claiming then a few sessions with a psychologist would likely unlock whatever buried experience was causing her to dream their case. It should be that simple.

It would be, except for the fact dreams are never regular and they don’t arrive on schedule. The human mind is suggestible; it can be influenced by drugs, by conditions, such attempts endlessly studied and quantified, but it can’t be programmed to dream to order. And yet it seemed, somehow, impossibly, Blanche Dubois is doing precisely that, receiving transmissions, across town, on a murderer’s wavelength. As if synchronised like clockwork to their crimes, Blanche views the macabre scene in her mind while the real action goes on elsewhere.

Despite herself Stella shivers. There must be an explanation, a logical one, one that will suddenly stumble into the light of their investigation. They just need to find it.


	10. History

Blanche Dubois sways slightly in her seat, so frail in the halogen brightness that it seems that an especially assertive huff from the air-conditioner might blow her away. Scully tries not to let her feelings show on her face, trying to retain her bedside manner, but seated next to the marble-composure of Stella Gibson, she feels like an open book. Scully has expressed concern to both the officer-in-charge and to Blanche herself that this interview is too much, too soon, that the post-nightmare sedation received has barely left her system, but it seems Blanche’s mind is made up. There’s a set to her jaw that stills the usual nervous flutter of her hands, as if her determination to verbalise the perceived threat gives her the power to escape it. Yesterday they were treated to a flurry of words, images and half-truths about her past but today is different; today she flits between periods of haunted silence and scuds of hard words, heavy with exhaustion and bitter with truth.

‘I met him in Miami one Christmas.

I had to get out of Laurel. I couldn’t breathe for the rumours and the boiler was as played out as I, so I figured why not fly south with the birds. I had a friend in Miami, Mrs. Meghan Sands, a girl from school who still sent pretty letters and empty invitations from time to time, and was far enough away that she wouldn’t know any better than to let me stay a while. The first few days were golden, like in that song. The fates allowed us to get along and I didn’t need to go out looking for someone like I’d planned to… I didn’t even need the bourbon I’d stowed in my suitcase. I thought my luck might be changing, she had a bachelor friend who was kind and attentive and the climate suited me well. It was my little Christmas miracle… until the night Meg had a headache and went up early, and Mr. Sands poured us both one too many drinks and then tried to kiss me. I screamed and that was the end of it. Women don’t like to keep other women that their husbands think of kissing under their roofs, regardless of who started it.’

Blanche smiles wanly at her sad philosophy, threading her fingers through her hair to push it off her face, searching Scully’s face for some flicker of understanding and ignoring Stella completely. Normally Stella commands the room, a cold clear light of absolute certainty, but Blanche’s narrative is a firelight flicker, unpredictable and prone to flare or fail. After yesterday’s experience, the British detective seems reluctant to push her witness to the point of hysteria, so she simply sits, waiting for Blanche to arrive at her destination and leaves Scully alone in the half-light of half-truth. 

Nodding her encouragement, Scully squeezes her hands together under the table, trying desperately not to fidget and betray her discomfort to either her witness or her colleague. The grey areas between belief and proof have always belonged to Mulder and his absence makes her feel both incomplete and an imposter. Her relief shakes past her lips on a long-held breath when Blanche finally breaks the silence to continue; claiming back the spotlight before it can reveal too much of her questioner.

‘There’s something about me that makes people think I’m trying to seduce, even when I’m not, some scarlet letter that burns through my purest intentions and draws down the worst of men. It seems Hester Prynne and I both wear clothes cut from the same cloth. Maybe she was forced and I bought mine, but nobody made me stay in Miami. Nobody forced me into that hotel, through those bars, into those dresses that covered less than they ought. There were men, some of them as rich as I’d dreamed they would be, but all just window shopping while they waited on a younger model, and as the New Year rocketed in my money was gone and all hopes of finding that elusive millionaire dwindled with the fireworks.

I’d decided I was washed up, that I’d have to go to my sister, when he slid into my booth and paid off my tab. He was younger than me, not exactly handsome but somehow imposing, and he took my hand with the gentleness of a child and kissed it.’

The thin white hand on the table shakes at the memory, at the hard bones of truth hiding just under the fragile skin of her memory.

‘I asked if he was a knight in shining armour and he said no. His voice was caught between accents and soft. I could hardly hear him over the music in the bar but his body curved round like a shield and I thought perhaps I could be safe there.

I asked him if he was a millionaire and he said he could be and smiled.

I knew he wasn’t. After two more drinks I knew he wasn’t there to rescue me, but in his smile, in his hand and his eyes, there was something more intoxicating than liquor or wealth; he needed me. Not in the way that all men need a woman when their libido is high and their morals low, but on some deeper level. He looked at me like a baby looks at its mama holding it, like a man looks at his wife at the altar, as if I were the only one who could give him what he needed and he would die without it. Without me.

I went with him willingly, legs unsteady enough that I leaned on his shoulder even after we got in the cab. He held my face in the crook of his shoulder and neck, hiding me from the world, and I didn’t think anything of it when he pressed his handkerchief into the gap between my face and his neck. At first I was pleasantly surprised he carried a handkerchief, I thought they died out with chivalry, so when I found I was getting dizzy I assumed it was the drinking. I tried to move, to get some fresh air, but he shushed me and held me still until everything dissolved to nothing.

I woke up in an unfamiliar place, naked, cold and tied to a mattress with plastic sheets on it by my pantyhose and underwear. He was standing at the end of the bed and crying. He still looked young, but no longer innocent, the blankness in his eyes frightened me more than the surroundings and I cried out. He didn’t move, just kept staring; not at my body but at my face, so I screamed until he did move. An alarm went off somewhere out of sight and it seemed to break the spell. He forced another cloth against my mouth and held my nose closed so I had to breathe through the copper-sour fabic. It choked me, stealing my sound and my air until I passed out again.

The next time I woke up I was alone and the whole place stank like cooking. Something greasy and burned, a poor man’s hell. I stayed quiet a few minutes, until I was sure I couldn’t hear anyone around so I started trying to get free. My arms were tied to a grille over the window and when I pulled it bent before my arms did, but it was loud, the metal screaming or maybe it was me. Either way I panicked, freeing my hands as fast as I could so I could at least scratch and hit when the moment came. Except nobody came. Only quiet.

The room had a door but it was locked and when I threw myself at it, the whole placed swayed and creaked. I realised then I must be in a trailer, there was no sound of the sea for it to be a boat but I was just as marooned as if it had been. I couldn’t shift the door, the windows were boarded tight, so all I could do while I sat in this trap was look for a weapon. The little kitchen was almost empty, plastic over everything but the oven door which was leaking the acrid burning smell. I wondered if I was being poisoned while I looked for the knives, you know the poem? “An ecstasy of fumbling,” and I had Wilfred Owen but no knives. No nothing but the built in furniture and something blackened and unrecognisable smoking in the oven.

Perhaps he meant to burn me. but there was no flame, just as there was no gas…no sign of his intentions at all. I was the mouse in his humane trap, captured and waiting for some other, undecided death. The trailer was small but I never felt so exposed as I did then, shut in this empty living, dying space with no protection and no way out.’

Blanche has shrunk in her chair, muscles contracting her down to her smallest self as though she can hide now as she couldn’t then, and Scully fights the urge to try and comfort her, to try and heal. But they need their truth and from the sounds of overzealous punctuation and seat shifting to her her left, Scully suspects Stella’s patience is wearing thin.

‘I shut myself in the bathroom. The door was barely solid but it locked from the inside and I felt safer in the tiny space, there was less room for fear especially when I found an old shirt stuffed between the shower and the toilet. I had clothes, I had a locked door, I was still alive and there was a cold, clean draft that helped me to clear my head. I sat there until I started shivering, wishing I could dissolve into atoms and escape with the air rattling through the vent. It took me much too long to realise that maybe I could, that cold air meant outside and outside might mean escape. When I stood on the toilet I could see stars around the ventilation hatch, just a few spots of light where things didn’t fit together properly, I can’t count how many times stars have showed me my way, but I caught Orion by his belt and followed one hunter away from another…

I don’t remember jumping down, but I must have because I do remember running; my feet shredding on the rough ground, losing myself in the night time under the stars with no plan or direction in mind other than other than away. Far away. I didn’t even look back. That’s the first thing they teach you when running track you know? Looking back slows you down. So I ran until I saw lights besides the stars, and then the lights were a road and the road had cars and I tried to stop them but nobody would help me until the police came.

I tried to tell them, tried to explain who I was and what had happened but they thought I was drunk. And then they took me into the station and looked me up and my record made them think I was really drunk.’

Scully interrupts then,

‘They didn’t take a statement? Or make any attempt to corroborate your story?’

Blanche regards the table with unnecessary interest.

‘They called the bar where I was and the barman said I’d left willingly with a guy. Just like the last few nights. I said that was true but what happened after was different. And they said I’d only been gone a few hours. And I said a few hours that I didn’t want to be gone! And then… they said they could do a test… To find out if I’d been… forced… because then there was a crime.’

She starts making nervous circles on the table with one slim, white finger.

‘I told them no. I told them…. I told them… I hadn’t. I knew I hadn’t. I know what - and then they said that there was no crime to investigate, that what people did in their bedrooms was their business, that maybe I should drink less and be more careful about who I “kept company” with.’ Blanche ceases making the circles and replaces them with sharp, slashing lines across the grain of the wood. Scully’s stomach has hollowed out and she glances sideways to see Stella’s lips set in a thin, furious line, the first time they have both responded to their witness in the same way.

‘I got angry then.’ Blanche admits, though her fury is written in every line of her pposture and the bitter strikes she is marking on the table. ‘And I shouted at them, told them that I might have started out drunk but that they were the ones who weren’t seeing clearly. They were the deluded ones! They laughed at that until I called them some very vulgar things. Then they put me in a cell and in the morning they gave me some pants out of lost property and let me go. I went back to Laurel that night.’

The fight drains out of her then, remembered anger giving way to resignation as Blanche finally widens her focus to include Stella, and then leans in a little, voice low with something not far from exhaustion and laced with the shame of defeat.

‘I thought about staying… about trying to prove myself. But I thought I was more likely to be found by the boy with the dead eyes than to find the truth and get anyone to believe me. You know it as well as I do Detective Gibson, all stories have power, but there’s danger in the telling. My love of magic, of fairytale colours in a bleak world makes me an “unreliable witness.” In this man’s world people are supposed to be one thing or another, beauty or a bitch, a wife or a wastrel. I tell stories, drink cocktails with strangers, dance alone until last orders and therefore I am judged a liar, a drunk and a floozy. There’s no place for those women in the witness stand so instead I ran.

I’ve always run. I’d like to run now but I’m so very, very tired.’ She looks to the door as if it leads to some far-flung escape and not just another corridor, her body leaning towards the imagined escape before retreating with a sigh. ‘Everything looks better when it’s moving fast, and the bad things pass sooner. Sometimes they even hurt less.’

‘Did the bad things pass?’ Stella’s voice is the calm after the storm of the story and Blanche looks up and laughs, though the sound holds no humour.

‘Detective Gibson… Stella… in your line of work you must know that people like me are never far from disaster. If I were a ship, my anchor would be calamity, weighing the end of a long chain that sometimes I can lift enough to move a little but that always pulls me back. But yes, for the purpose of this meeting, the bad thing passed. I never saw that person again. That bad thing became one more shadow in my past and other things, some of them better, took over my days. A little colour in all the whiteness, a little warmth to hold back the dark…’

‘Until last night?’ Stella clarifies, and Blanche nods.

‘He’s older now, not much but there are deeper lines and a scar where there didn’t used to be. He burned his face into my nightmares when he stood and watched me scream. I’d know him anywhere.’

* * *

 

‘I hope she’s right,’ Stella mutters absently as they go over their notes in an empty interview room. Next door, Blanche Dubois is sitting with a police sketch artist.

‘About what?’ Scully can’t quite keep the incredulity out of her voice. She’s still haunted by the desperate hold of Blanche’s gaze across the table, by the unspoken plea in her voice that cut straight through the veneer of police detachment Scully had painted on in preparation. That story, half-hidden though it was behind poetic embellishments, had connected with both her doctor’s need to heal and the long dormant hunger for justice, truth and fairness that Mulder had always appealed to to convince her of a tenuous case. Blanche Dubois has made her believe, and the idea that Stella can remain unmoved, unaffected by the scars laid bare before them…

Stella looks up, confused by the harsh edge to Scully’s words and somehow sees and understands all that she cannot verbalise in the shared space of a conflicted blue gaze.

‘I was talking about being able to recognise her attacker’s face anywhere. Not the rest of it. I…’ Stella pauses, caught between instinctively presenting her most resilient self and sharing an honest moment.

Screw it.

Dana Scully has forgiven several misreadings, has proved herself invaluable to the investigation and she doesn’t seem the type to exploit a crack in another woman’s armour. Her trust is worth the risk, and so Stella sighs, leans forward to massage her temples and lets her words fall softly into the quiet of the room.

‘I wish that I didn’t think the rest of it was true. It would be much, much easier to squeeze Ms. Dubois for information if I hadn’t seen that same face in a thousand interviews. But I have, I’ve seen it all, I’d recognise that truth anywhere; the eyes pleading to be believed, the hands holding the tension of the trauma, legs pressed tight together as if it weren’t already too late to protect what has been taken. And the voices… I’m halfway across the world but it’s always the same. Fear and anger, sadness, hurt and shame… that’s the worst, the fact that any woman anywhere could blame herself for what an assailant took from her. That chord of desperation, denial and survival? That victim symphony? You can’t fake it.’

She looks up, catches sight of the personal question forming on Scully’s lips and folds her arms to fed off any further intrusion.

‘Blanche Dubois is a victim, I know that that much is true, though I still don’t know of whom. But even if I did, I have to force that knowledge to the back of my mind to do my job. I have to separate the woman from the witness, the same way you pathologists view a cadaver as a case and not a person. Perhaps at times I go too far in that separation, when the stakes are high…’ Stella stops, head bowed, and tries to push away a memory of Blanche Dubois’ agonised face when confronted with an identity parade of the dead, to stop herself feeling the disappointed blaze of Dana Scully’s protective instinct.

And then there’s a small hand on her elbow, a note of forgiveness at her side.

‘Sometimes we all go too far trying to do the right thing.’ Scully’s words are heavy with years of experience and her smile is sad. For a brief but binding moment the air in the room is one of sisterhood, and then a wash of boisterous male voices swings past in the corridor and reality crashes back into the foreground.

Stella shakes herself and turns her smile professional while Scully’s hand retreats to close up her notes.

‘I think you should be looking for your possible first victim in Miami’s Jane Does,’ she says, as if nothing has happened. ‘Your perp had a kill room set up, and I think it’s unlikely he walked away from it. With that timeframe, we may be looking further back than we thought.’

Stella nods her agreement.

‘Let’s go tell Stanning,’ she says. ‘That should give him something to be petty and pissed-off about in the afternoon briefing.’


	11. Transitory

Scully wakes up on hotel-crisp sheets after not nearly long enough. Her mind is racing but her body tells her it’s not morning yet. The clock is showing 11:15pm and she’s only been asleep for around four hours, the remains of a room-service salad drying out on the desk. Stella Gibson, with her brusquely dismissive, “You’ve been up at least 36 hours. Check yourself in, the Bureau will cover the bill, and we’ll discuss what happens next in the morning,” is staying two floors up.

The end of the afternoon had passed in a hurry of meetings and memorandums, an updated file  arriving from the morgue complete with forms declaring that Scully’s late night examination had been totally by-the-book defusing Stanning’s fury from apoplectic to merely seething. He was biding his time, Scully could tell; smarting because Blanche Dubois had refused to speak to him when she’d finished with the sketch artist, affronted when Stella had gone straight to AD Gilmore to request approval to involve the Miami field office in their hunt for Jane Doe, his macho bravado growing louder with every small step the women of the taskforce took forward without his input. And it wasn’t that they sought to exclude him, Scully had realised as the day wore on, it was quite simply that he wasn’t willing to listen or participate until it suited his purpose.

When the police artist had come into the situation room with an e-fit sketch from Blanche’s description, Stanning had stood right next to them as Stella listed the databases she wanted it run against, he was well within earshot of Scully’s suggestion that they also check it against hospital staff records in the cities of interest. Short of profound deafness, there was no way he could have missed Scully’s subsequent explanation that most intravenous drugs capable of killing with the required speed and subtlety are controlled substances. and that access to such drugs makes it possible their perp is a medical professional of some sort. Scully could even have sworn that Agent Stanning had nodded his approval to extend their search parameters, but by the time they reached the last meeting of the day, Scully’s reiteration of those same suggestions to the gathered taskforce had been met with a unsubtle, definitely not under-the-breath, “Would be great if your little consultant would run this stuff past me before sharing with the room,” to Gibson, standing stonily at his side.

Scully suspects that Stanning’s hostility towards her has a lot more to do with Stella Gibson than Scully herself, but she hasn’t had a chance to ask what might be at the root of it. Things between her and the British detective have thawed as the day has worn on, the previous night’s unpleasantness put aside for now in the interest of furthering the case. Blanche’s clear preference for Scully has changed the landscape and they are both still adapting, Stella making space for Scully’s ideas and investigative victories despite her instinct to hold all the cards. It’s imperfect but it is working.

Tomorrow will be another rebalancing, and in the honesty of midnight darkness Scully prays that she will be asked to stay, that Stella’s initial promise of partnership will be renewed and the day will carry her to the morgue to assist with processing, or to a crime scene, anywhere where she can work, help and be useful in the search for the truth. This case has burrowed its way into her mind and she feels that familiar itch of unfinished business, of injustice, her mind rejecting sleep in favour of going over the evidence. After all, the structure and strictures of investigation, of neatly typed reports and linked evidence is a much kinder and more familiar cause for insomnia than the choking misery of Mulder’s absence which has become her frequent bedfellow these last few months.

Trying not to count back the nights where she’s reached for him and found only a cold pillow, Scully flicks on the TV, hoping for some numbing background noise. Instead, she finds her own face.

The photograph is old, maybe as much as a decade. She vaguely remembers having it taken for a hospital ID on a day when her hair was at an awkward in-between stage after being on the run, and next to Stella’s pristine police portrait she looks like the scruffy younger sister. Clicking on the sound, she catches the end of a report identifying her as a possible consultant and speculating as to what could have brought two women from such wildly different backgrounds on to the suspected serial case. When they cut back to the anchor, Scully recognises one of the men from from outside the station, and she realises that, in absence of any official statement to the press, she and Stella are likely the closest thing anyone has to a story. She only hopes that- and then in a flash Mulder’s face is on screen, and it’s too late, the potted official history of their partnership laid out for the late-night news audience with the standard side order of ridicule and sensationalism. She feels a pang then, for the old days where they’d have laughed off the bad press over bad coffee, the marks on each of their bodies reassuring them that the truth they sought was valid and important, their scars an armour of proof that only the other could see or understand. It’s a fond memory, and it gives Scully the excuse she has been pretending not to be waiting for. If her involvement has made the news, there is a chance it will make it to Mulder. She has to call. She pretends her heart isn’t racing at the thought of hearing his voice.

Scully calls their landline on autopilot. It’s the closest phone to Mulder’s desk and she knows that is likely where he will be. Late night calls are a staple of their relationship, or at least they had been back when they still talked, miles of telephone wire condensing to nothing under the magnetism of their connection, his voice in her ear more intimate than the touch of any man who had come before him. Even at the beginning, his sincerity, his fervour had stripped away her cynicism, if not her scepticism, and left her open and vulnerable to everything he was, everything that they became… everything they have lost.

He picks up on an inhale but says nothing, forcing her to break the silence. Again.

‘Mulder, it’s me.’

And she wishes she could see his face, because his ‘Scully?’ is a question she doesn’t know how to answer. It’s not a ‘Where the hell are you and why have you got my phone?’ It’s not a ‘Why haven’t you come home?’ It’s ‘Why are you calling me Scully?’ and she doesn’t know how to answer him.

She’d planned to tell him that she was assisting the FBI, not to worry and sorry she’d snuck out but he seemed busy. She’d thought perhaps she’d tempt him into the case, saying, ‘Please if you have any “Mulder hunches” call me because this guy is a sick fuck and I want to catch him’ and meaning, ‘I miss you. I miss us.’ But now frustration and loss and rage are fighting in her throat and, ‘Mulder I love you; why don’t you see me slipping away?’ is tangled up in, ‘Did you even notice I was gone?’ and ‘Why the hell haven’t you checked your phone in two days? I could have been dead in a ditch and you wouldn’t know, wouldn’t even care, you self-involved bastard!’

In the end, nothing comes out. And that’s what she tells him.

‘It’s nothing Mulder. I’m fine, I was just… Don’t worry.’

And he tells her goodbye and puts the phone down and Scully feels, just for a second, like she is nothing. That it has all been for nothing.

Mulder’s phone is heavy in her hand, one more thing of his he seems content to live without, and Scully lets it drop to the bed and get lost in the dark. He’d sworn they wouldn’t get lost in the dark, but it’s not the first promise he’s broken.

Determinedly swinging her legs out of bed, Scully drags workout clothes out of her luggage and pulls them on, transplanting the energy of her anger, the tension of her hurt into her muscles and as soon as her sneakers are laced she’s out of the door and headed for the health club. She skips the elevator, jogs down the ten flights of stairs and thanks God and whoever signs off Stella Gibson’s expenses for the Hilton and their 24/7 fitness centre.

The gym is empty and the music is off, but that suits Scully fine. She picks a treadmill by the window overlooking the pool for the distracting chlorine-fuelled fractals the water casts on the walls and ups the incline until she can feel her thighs start to burn. Mulder likes to run outside, to escape, but for Scully running has always been a form of punishment, penitence for that extra dinner roll, her legs pounding Hail Marys into the conveyor until her lungs burn and her mind empties. It’s not about getting anywhere or away from anything, it’s about staying the course. Tonight she will run until she forgets to feel hurt by what she’s left behind, until she forgets to be afraid of what comes next.

Ten minutes in and movement below catches the edge of her consciousness, figures intruding on the edge of her pool-rippled blank space. She keeps running, keeps gazing but they do not retreat, and Scully finds herself leaning in, observing the people below from her vantage point as if through a microscope.

There’s a familiarity to the arch of the woman’s back as she slips into the spa tub in a seal-black line. There’s a recognisable arrogance to the way she rises up on her knees and leans into her companion, to her dedication to her own pleasure as she slips the straps of her bathing suit down her shoulders in a public area, not caring who might be watching the sensuous skid of fingers down her now naked back. It’s not until the woman throws her head back, her lips tight with pleasure, that Scully realises why the stranger seems so familiar.

It’s Stella, her hair slicked back and dark from the pool. She seems as confident here, half naked and straddling someone in an empty jacuzzi, as she had in the boardroom. Scully hits the emergency stop on the treadmill, meaning to rush away, ashamed of her accidental voyeurism but as she is about to step back the scene below her changes. Stella rolls away from her partner to recline against the edge of the pool, and as she settles in a languid pose, somehow both soft and hard in one liquid pose, she looks up and notices her audience.

Scully freezes, still poised to run but now there’s a dare in Stella’s eyes, a wicked invitation to stay a little longer, to see how far things go, and Scully finds herself starting the treadmill again, a low setting, no incline, a feeble excuse to spectate Stella’s conquest.

Without relinquishing eye contact, Stella slides over to reclaim her partner, pulling them into her lap and arching her neck to give them access to the ivory swoop of her skin. A slight smile curves her lips when Scully eventually realises the body draped over her colleague is that of another woman. Scully is not surprised, there have been moments where Stella’s glance has skirted the edges of seductive, and remembering them now, wondering if she encouraged them, pins Scully more firmly in the sweet place between fight and flight. She runs harder, looking for another explanation for the heat rising in her cheeks and settling in places she will not acknowledge when Stella’s fingers dip playfully under the edges of the other woman’s bikini. She should leave. She doesn’t want this. Does she? Scully has never been a voyeur but the adrenaline coursing through her body from the exercise and the taboo of what she is watching is intoxicating. And so she keeps jogging, keeps making excuses and chalking up her shortness of breath to exertion.

A quarter mile later and the dark haired woman’s hands have vanished from view, the unfocused blue of Stella’s gaze giving Scully a pretty good idea of what they might be doing, though from her vantage point all she can see is bubbles. For a mad moment she considers going downstairs, some insidious voice in the back of her mind telling Scully that Stella wouldn’t mind, but even this much, even dragging her own lower lip into her mouth as Stella’s eyes finally snap shut and biting down to feel the corresponding tightness in her nipples and between her legs feels sinful. It’s a mix of sexy and sordid that without Stella’s gaze to hold her in place feels overwhelming, and as reason crashes in on this early hours insanity, Scully leaves. She doesn’t glance back to where deft fingers have now vanished inside bikini bottoms and definitely doesn’t acknowledge the ache between her own legs until she has reached the safety of her room.

Locking the door and dimming all the lights, as if that can hide the shameful desperation of her desire, Scully strips off and lets the shower head and her fingers finish what started ten floors down. It’s a technique she’s perfected in the months spent waiting for Mulder, a quick release so she can go to bed satisfied if not sated.

She remembers the first time, she’d put it off for weeks, unwilling to accept that yet another of their connections had failed, until her body was screaming to be touched, and then finally, desperately, Scully had crawled onto Mulder’s side of the bed, head deep in his pillow, and she’d touched herself pretending it was him. Afterwards she cried herself to sleep with loneliness of it, waking up alone with the evidence, before relocating to the shower where at least it felt more like an emotional ablution than a last resort. She tells herself the same thing now, that it’s a natural urge, a hormonal release, and has absolutely nothing to do with whatever devilish desire had kept her watching downstairs, and that the uncharacteristic act of watching has nothing to do with what is missing at home. Scully’s almost convinced herself of both lies by the time she crawls back into bed, and she drifts off to dreams of running, of following Mulder down a dark and endless tunnel, calling out for him to wait and then looking back to see Stella Gibson chasing behind, face bright with freedom and laughing as the gap begins to close.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a novel length casefile that I've been working on for some months! It started as a wild idea posted by tumblr user @emaleighadeux and spiralled from there. She was my first cheerleader and I can't thank her enough for the inspiration.
> 
> As my mad plan spiralled into something more realistic I was lucky enough to meet my fabulous betas, without who this would be a comma ridden, overly descriptive mess. To Cindy (@therobbinsnest) - thank you for pushing me with the story, for spotting missed opportunities and for screaming enthusiastically when I got a sentence perfectly at the third time of asking. You're a doll. To Krista (@stellagibsonisalifeforce) thank you for beating my ass grammatically, for insisting on consistency, calling me on characterisation and keeping me honest. You're the best teacher I never had and I (@crossedbeams) am in your debt.


End file.
